


A Future to Be Had

by mille_libri



Series: At Your Side [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-15 18:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 55
Words: 114,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5795788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mille_libri/pseuds/mille_libri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being pursued for years by Tevinters and the Chantry, Fenris and Evelyn Hawke retreat to Kirkwall and gather their former allies around them ... but soon find they can't outrun the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. History Repeats Itself

Evelyn Hawke straightened up, a hand on her aching lower back. She'd been stirring the creamy fish chowder for what felt like hours, and the time spent standing in one place had caused her back to stiffen. More stretching, she told herself sternly. They couldn't afford to let themselves get out of shape. She banged the spoon on the edge of the cauldron, reaching for a towel to protect her hands as she lifted the heavy pot of chowder off the fire.

Fenris poked his head in the door. "Is that dinner?"

"Yes. Thanks for your help."

He raised his eyebrows. "I thought you preferred me not to help with the cooking. My attempts never seem exactly appetizing. Fish." His expression eloquently said what he thought of that food.

"True enough. It's just hot in here. I'm sorry I snapped at you." It was an apology that happened all too frequently these days. Evelyn smiled at him to take the sting from her hasty words, and was rewarded by the softening of his green eyes.

"We will be in momentarily," he said, withdrawing his head from the door. Evelyn could hear him calling out to their daughter, who was practicing knife-throwing in the little side yard next to their shack.

Once Evelyn might have taken pride in the state of their home—she had done so, in fact—but they'd been through so many homes in the last several years she had stopped trying. When their daughter Bianca was eight, Tevinter slave-hunters had attacked their peaceful lemon grove in rural Antiva, sending them on their first flight. Since then, they'd lived in two different locations in Nevarra and one in the Anderfels before settling in this tiny Rivaini fishing village. Evelyn understood her mother now far better than she'd ever wanted to. Between the Tevinters looking for Fenris and the Chantry's Seekers chasing her, they were as hunted as she'd been in her childhood. The last thing she'd ever wanted was to raise her own child on the run, but she'd been left with no other choice. Bianca was nearly sixteen now, only a few short weeks away from her birthday, and the chance to settle down and give her daughter some stability was rapidly slipping through Evelyn's fingers. It was this growing desperation and sorrow that had her snapping at Fenris—and often he at her—because neither of them could think of a way to stop the relentless pursuit by their enemies.

Evelyn's dark thoughts were cut off when her family came in; first Fenris, his hair as white and his face as unlined as ever, despite the passage of years, and then Bianca, tall and slim with glossy black hair that she wore in a long braid and green eyes as captivating as her father's. They had been saying for years that they needed to find a place where she could train her skills, as neither Fenris nor Evelyn was particularly adept with knives, bows, or locks, but somehow it had never happened.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
"Bianca's aim is improving," Fenris remarked, sitting down at the rickety table and looking at the fish chowder with suspicion. This was far from being his favorite of their many homes. The smell of fish was constant, and sickening. He would have suggested moving on again, but he was aware of how desperately Evelyn hoped each new location would be the last. He knew better; the sheer value of the lyrium embedded in his skin was worth hunting him for, and to his knowledge he was still the only living lyrium warrior. The Tevinters would want to study him in order to replicate Danarius's methods, as well as to use him to the advantage of whichever magister was rich, or clever, enough to procure him. He was less clear on what the Chantry wanted with Evelyn, but with the Chantry's hold on the few remaining Circles slipping, he could only imagine that possession of the famed Champion of Kirkwall would benefit the Chantry's reputation. To his mind, it was a miracle they had escaped detection as long as they had.

"Not enough," Bianca said in response to his remark, and he brought his attention back to the conversation at hand. "When can I go train with Aunt Isabela? She said I can travel with them—I'd be perfectly safe."

"Safe on a pirate ship? That's an interesting definition," Evelyn said, her blue eyes glinting with humor. There were lines on her face and grey streaks in her hair that hadn't been there before, but she was still the most beautiful woman Fenris had ever seen, and he had never quite gotten used to the idea that she had chosen him out of all the men she could have claimed for her own.

"I'd be safer than here," Bianca said sulkily. "At least on the ship I could pretend to be normal; no one would know who my famous parents were." She spat 'famous' as though it were a curse, and Evelyn and Fenris exchanged glances.

"That'll be enough of that," Evelyn said, her voice sharp. "We're a family, and we'll stay together."

"No matter what it costs me." Bianca looked down into her soup, twirling her spoon. "Fine, be selfish." She stood up abruptly, knocking the table and sending the chowder slopping over the sides of the bowls.

"Bianca!" Evelyn called after her, but Bianca didn't look back, moving to the door.

"I'm not hungry," she said over her shoulder. "I'll be outside practicing."

Evelyn sighed, watching as the door swung closed behind their daughter. "She's not wrong."

"Nor are you."

"That's no comfort."

Fenris reached for her hand, squeezing it, and Evelyn managed a faint smile. "She'll get over it," he said.

"When? By the time she's thirty, still on the run? We'll have run out of places to live by then."

There was no reply to give to that one, so Fenris didn't, focusing instead on choking down the soup.

He had made it halfway through the bowl when he heard a cry from the side yard. Instantly both he and Evelyn were on their feet, reaching for the swords that hung, as always, just above the door. Fenris went first, Evelyn behind him, bursting through the door to behold Bianca struggling in the grip of a man wearing the telltale helmet of a Tevinter slave-hunter. Several others stood near the narrow lane that led past the house, their weapons drawn.

"Let me go!" Bianca shouted, stamping on the Tevinter's foot.

"Now, brat, you be nice to me or I won't be nice to you."

"I'll never be nice to you!"

A taller man with an air of authority stepped forward, his eyes on Fenris. "I see we have you at a disadvantage."

"I will kill you if you harm her," Fenris said, beating down the rage that threatened to consume him and speaking as calmly as he could.

"There are eight of us, three of you, and one of you already incapacitated. I know you and your Champion there were fearsome in your day, but that time has passed." The leader spoke with a straight face, but there were snickers from one or two of the others.

"Don't you dare laugh at my parents!" Bianca shouted. She struggled harder in the grip of her captor, and Fenris could see she was trying to reach the dagger she kept concealed in a hidden pocket along the leg of her leathers.

Two of the Tevinters closed in on Evelyn while two others came toward Fenris. They only wanted him, he had learned that by now, but they weren't above menacing the others if necessary. Evelyn held herself still until the Tevinters were almost upon her, letting them think she was cowed by the one holding Bianca, but once they were in range she whirled swiftly, her blade tracing an arc in the air. It cleaved through the neck of the first one, shearing his head from his body, and lodged in the throat of the second. Fenris, alert to her every movement, spun at the same time, leaping into the air and coming down on the unprotected head of one of the Tevinters on his side. Some day they would all learn to wear helmets, he thought grimly. His markings glowed and he sank his fist into the second Tevinter's chest cavity, ripping out the man's heart in a single savage tug.

"Foolish," the captain said. He looked up at the housetop and nodded; a Tevinter stationed there dropped something down the chimney and within moments there was a muffled boom as a bomb exploded in the fireplace. The flimsy wooden shack began burning immediately.

Fenris was profoundly grateful that they had cached their valuables in a small cave outside town, where a rowboat awaited them as well. Now, if they could escape this encounter ...

Bianca shrieked, renewing her struggles, although the man holding her made no move to harm her, for which Fenris was grateful. He wasn't particularly surprised—Bianca may well be considered valuable as leverage against her parents. Or as a potential slave, with years of good work ahead of her, he thought sickly. His anger provided momentum, and he yanked his sword out of the split-open head of the Tevinter, sprinting forward at top speed to impale the obnoxiously self-possessed captain on the great blade.

Meanwhile, Bianca slammed her head back against the jaw of the man holding her. He cried out, moving one of the arms that immobilized her. Immediately she reached for her hidden blade, throwing it with a vicious snap of her wrist. It hit the slaver on the roof of the house—the blade itself merely grazed his armor, but the surprise of it knocked him off balance and he fell from the top of the shack. A sickening crunch was heard as he landed, his head bent at an unnatural angle.

Fenris, looking up, saw their neighbor's three children staring, wide-eyed, over the top of the loft window of their house. When they moved in, they had explained the situation to their next-door neighbors—a risky move, but necessary—and had warned the family to stay out of any trouble that might start, that they would be safe from Tevinters and Chantry unless they tried to interfere. It appeared the warning was being taken to heart; the door was shuttered and no one was to be seen in the usually busy cottage garden. His sharp ears picked up a barked command from inside the house and two pairs of children's eyes disappeared beneath the window sill, the third remaining, transfixed by the battle scene unfolding.

Bianca ducked under the arm of the surprised Tevinter, stamping on his foot again and spinning quickly to punch him in the nose. She shook her hand, wincing, as the Tevinter reeled, holding his nose and howling. Fenris ran to them, putting his already-bloodied hand through the Tevinter's stomach and tearing a fist-sized hole in his vitals. He wanted to see the man suffer, wanted him to die slowly for having dared to touch Fenris's daughter, and the depth of his enjoyment of the man's death rattle shook him. He had never been a man who took pleasure in the pain of others. With his unsullied hand he reached out for Bianca, who came into his arms, clinging to him. "Papa!" It was the first time she had been an integral part of the fighting force—all the other attacks had been at night, and Fenris and Evelyn had taken care of the attackers while Bianca slept. Fenris was tremendously proud of his girl for her self-possession.

It was the gasp that recalled him to the count of slavers and reminded him that he had forgotten one. Turning, Bianca still sheltered in his protective arm, he saw Evelyn dropping to her knees, holding her side, as the last Tevinter slowly fell over backward, Hawke's blade buried in his chest cavity.

"Evelyn!" Fenris ran to her, going on his knees next to her.

"I'm all right." She tried to smile at him, but her eyes were filled with pain, and blood shone red between the fingers she held to her side.

The house was burning, the neighbors beginning to creep out of their houses to fight the leaping flames now that the battle was over. The woman who lived next door, a tall, spare, unsmiling type, came over to them as Fenris struggled to think clearly enough to know what to do next. Seeing Evelyn wounded took the very heart out of him; all he could grasp was that he had brought this danger on them, that she was wounded, perhaps badly so, because of him.

The neighbor pushed him aside. "I have a poultice I can spare, stop the bleeding for a little," she said, "but then you've got to get out. Can't have this here, endangering our little ones." Her voice was uncompromising, but there was kindness in the tone.

"We couldn't stay anyway, not now that they know we're here," Bianca said. She put her hand over Evelyn's, doing what she could to staunch the bleeding.

With a brisk nod, the neighbor pushed Fenris and Bianca aside. "You two go help with the fire, keep it from spreading."

Fenris knew it was the least they could do, after having brought danger to these people, but the men of the village were working hard now, bringing water up from the shore in a practiced brigade, and Evelyn needed him. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing tears spilling down his wife's face, tears she usually was able to hold back, as the neighbor woman probed the wound with knowledgeable fingers. Bianca pulled on his arm.

"Come on, Papa. Sooner we get the fire under control, sooner we can be on our way to ... wherever we're going." Her voice was bitter, and he worried for her as he mechanically joined her in the bucket line.

By the time they had the fire doused—too late to save anything from what had so briefly been their home—Evelyn's side was bandaged and she was on her feet, although not steadily.

Bianca collected both their swords as Fenris stopped to thank the neighbor. "There will be some payment in the cave to the south of town, as well as whatever can be salvaged from the house. We appreciate ... everything." He had long since stopped being suspicious of the neighbors. They may have been the ones to inform on the family, but he would never know, and he slept more easily if he could avoid thinking vengeful thoughts about everyone he had met.

"Go safely." The neighbor stood watching them as they left the yard, Hawke leaning heavily on Fenris's shoulder as Bianca carried the swords.

The rowboat was undisturbed, as was the cache of their belongings. By the time they reached it, Fenris was practically carrying Evelyn. He set her gently in the boat, collecting the things they had left in the cave before joining his wife and daughter. He disliked traveling by water, but it was the best choice for now, and the nearest.

"Where are we going this time, Papa?" Bianca's green eyes were wide and shone with unshed tears.

He paused in the act of picking up the oars, realizing he did not know the answer to her question.

"Fenris." Evelyn's voice was faint. He leaned down toward her where she lay in the bottom of the boat, to hear her better.

"What is it?"

"Take me home."

He wasn't sure where she meant. Antiva? Ferelden?

"Take me to Kirkwall," she said. "I want Varric."


	2. The Voyage Home

Fenris and Bianca took turns rowing across the strip of ocean that separated the tip of Rivain from the island where the bustling port of Llomerryn was located. They landed on the opposite side of the island, however, not wanting to deal with the curious crowds in the larger town. Leaving them with the boat, Evelyn bandaged her side firmly and walked up to the small village on the coast near where they had landed, only a slight limp showing what the movement was costing her.

She negotiated for a fishing boat and captain to take them across the water and into the Free Marches. The price demanded was ridiculously high, but no one was fooling anyone—Evelyn needed the boat badly, and the captain knew it. He could charge what he wanted and she would pay.

Late at night, the three of them came to the dock. Fenris was shrouded in a heavy cloak, covering the distinctive markings. Even in the dark he couldn't entirely conceal them; they shone with their own luminescence, their reflection glinting off the waves when his hand emerged from under the cloak to reach for Bianca's. Ostensibly he meant to steady her, but in reality it was more to reassure himself that she was there. Evelyn's brush with death three days before still had Fenris unsettled. It was a more direct reminder of the fragility of their peace and happiness than they'd had previously. As Fenris had never entirely grasped the concept of a home, losing the string of them mattered little to him as long as he still had Evelyn and Bianca. To have come within a hair's breadth of losing one of them ...

"Papa?" Bianca tugged at the hand that grasped hers, and Fenris blinked, reminded that they were on a dock getting ready to flee to one of the least safe places in all of Thedas. "Papa, come on," she said eagerly.

He allowed himself to be led, crossing the plank to the waiting boat. The fisherman waited until they were all three aboard, then cast off, his son the only other crewman.

"You know how to sail a ship?" the boy—a lad in his late teens, from the looks of him—asked Bianca. There was a gleam in the boy's eyes that Fenris didn't like.

"No. But my—" Bianca caught herself at a warning shake of the head from her mother before she could mention Isabela's pirate ship. "My dream is to learn how," she said instead, smiling at the boy.

He flushed in response to her beautiful smile, and Fenris restrained himself from growling, but only barely. He glanced at Hawke, who seemed more amused than anything else. "We should not allow her to become so familiar with this young man," Fenris said softly.

"Why not? It isn't as though she's likely to see him again after this voyage," Hawke whispered back. "She has to learn how to talk to boys sometime."

"She's a child!"

"She's almost sixteen, Fenris. By the time I was her age ..." Evelyn's voice trailed off. "Well, perhaps she doesn't need to learn that much." She grinned.

"I find your levity on this topic most disturbing."

"Of course you do. You're her father; it's your job to glower and be entirely too serious every time a boy gets near her." Hawke glanced over at Bianca, who was listening intently to an in-depth description of knot-tying. "At least she won't see this one again once we get to Kirkwall. And he seems harmless enough." She dug her elbow into Fenris's side. "It's when she starts going for the dark, broody type that we'll need to worry."

He narrowed his eyes, not enjoying the joke. "I do—"

"Not brood," she finished for him. "I know."

Fenris had to smile at that. He was relieved to be here with her, and to watch her spirits rising as the boat pulled away from the docks and out in the dark water, moving toward Kirkwall. "Are you certain these people will take us to the correct place?" he asked, suddenly suspicious. He would not have put it past the Tevinters to have bribed the boat captain.

Hawke didn't answer for a moment, staring out over the water as though her gaze could pierce the darkness of the night. "Relatively sure," she said.

"I would have preferred a more confident answer."

"I would have preferred to give you one." She chuckled softly. "They seem to be going in the right direction for now, and in the morning we'll see where we are."

A quick glance told him Bianca was busy practicing knots while her youthful instructor corrected her, and he tugged Hawke a little farther away. "It still strikes me as foolhardy to walk into Kirkwall as though we are waving a red flag at the Chantry and the Tevinters."

"Maybe it is," she said, "but I can't run any more. I've had enough running for several lifetimes. I'm through letting the Chantry—or the Tevinters—dictate my life and keep me away from the people I care about. I haven't seen Varric in nearly two decades, all because we're so afraid of the people who are chasing us that we don't dare go home."

"But for how long, Evelyn? What will we do when they come for us again, when they threaten Bianca's life once more?"

"We'll figure out a way to get them to stop. Between Varric and Aveline and Isabela and you and I and Bethany—"

"And Donnic," Fenris put in, thinking with pleasure of how nice it would be to see his friend again. Perhaps she had something here, after all. It could be that they were only vulnerable because they were isolated. "I see your point. I only hope that we are afforded the chance to plan before our enemies come for us." He swallowed, thinking of Bianca clutched in the Tevinter's hands, of Evelyn sinking to her knees with blood covering her side. "I cannot imagine what I would do if—"

"You don't have to," Evelyn said firmly, putting her arms around him. "Nothing's going to happen to us; we're going to be fine. Trust me," she whispered, her mouth very close to his. Her soft lips touched his cheek, then his jaw, then claimed his mouth, her tongue teasing his lips until Fenris groaned and pulled her against him. She gave a pleased moan as he took charge of the kiss, holding her head still while his tongue plundered her mouth.

An exasperated exclamation broke into the moment, and Fenris tore his lips from Evelyn's to see their daughter staring at them, her arms crossed and her foot tapping impatiently. She narrowed her green eyes at them. "Do you two know how embarrassing you are?"

Evelyn chuckled. "I used to say that to my parents, too." The smile faded, and she sighed. "If I'd only known how lucky I was to have parents who loved each other the way they did ..."

Bianca snorted. "At least you had a brother and a sister to roll your eyes at."

Fenris felt the sudden tension in Evelyn's body. They had tried for more children, tracking Evelyn's cycles and experimenting with timing and frequency and positions, but she had only conceived the one time. He had learned years ago to be content with the blessing that had been allotted to them—and had secretly wondered if he could care as deeply for another child as he did for the stormy, beautiful, intelligent Bianca—but Evelyn hadn't given up on the dream until her cycles began to arrive more erratically as she grew older. Unfortunately, that development had coincided with Bianca learning how effective a weapon her only-childhood was in her continual wrangles with her mother. He did not believe his daughter set out to hurt her mother, but certainly she had found it an effective way to gain the upper hand in an argument.

"Perhaps you would be better off simply averting your eyes and keeping your thoughts to yourself," he snapped at Bianca.

Her eyes widened in surprise; Fenris realized that this time his daughter's comment had been truly wistful, rather than designed to wound. Bianca flushed, casting her mother an apologetic look. "Of course. Sorry, Mama."

"It's all right, Bianca. I wish you had a brother or a sister, too. Although I have to admit that it's easier to move one child than three. My poor mother," she said softly, looking out over the water. Fenris's arms tightened around her, and Bianca came across the worn wood of the deck to add herself to the family hug.

After several minutes, Fenris disentangled himself. "The two of you should get some sleep. It will be a long night."

"You know the coastlines better than I do," Hawke reminded him. "Why don't you sleep now and I'll take the night watch?"

"Why do we need a watch at all?" Bianca asked. "Surely we're safe enough on the boat."

Fenris and Hawke exchanged a glance. "Habit," Hawke said in response to Bianca's question.

The girl frowned, and then shrugged, obviously deciding it wasn't worth carrying the line of questioning any further.

Grudgingly, Fenris allowed Hawke to prepare a pallet for him on the deck. "You are certain you won't let me stand the night watch?"

"Don't be foolish. I'm perfectly capable of keeping watch, and you know it."

"You know, I could keep watch," Bianca put in. "I'm almost sixteen, and I can probably stay awake better than both of you."

Hawke looked at her daughter appraisingly, but Fenris shook his head almost before Bianca had finished speaking. "No. Perhaps some other time."

Bianca sighed, rolling her eyes, and muttered something uncomplimentary under her breath that Fenris pretended not to have heard. Some day he would have to begin accepting that his daughter was growing up and becoming an important part of their defenses, but for now she was still what needed protecting. He held himself immobile next to her, listening as her breathing slowed and stretched out and became even and soft. Every sound she made, every movement was unutterably precious to him, not just because soon she would be too old for this, but because he lived every day with the fear that she would be taken from him, caught in the crossfire of those who pursued her parents.

Shifting to his side, he watched her peaceful face, marveling that such beauty had come from him. He had to admit to himself that even though he still thought Hawke was being perilously foolish in insisting on going back to Kirkwall, he did want to see Donnic and Aveline's four sons, to speak with his old friend and find out if his experience of fatherhood and family life had been as transformational, as utterly fulfilling, as Fenris's had.

Despite Hawke's admonishment, Fenris spent most of the night lying awake and watching his daughter sleep. As dawn broke in the sky, he found to his relief that he could see the coast of the Free Marches in front of him—a far rockier and more forbidding coastline than if somehow the captain had gone north along the coast of Antiva, and on the correct side of the boat. At some point in his past he had known which was port and which starboard, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember it now. Clearly, he was a failure as a pirate captain's brother-in-law.

He considered Isabela and Bethany for a moment. Certainly, they would protect Bianca as their own, if Fenris and Evelyn entrusted her to the care of her aunts, and there were few better than Isabela for training in the shadowy skills Bianca seemed best at. The years hadn't slowed the pirate at all, merely adding a honed edge to her talents. It would have been perfect if they could have taken Bianca aboard themselves and enjoyed a few years of carefree living on the high seas. But Hawke had hated shipboard life, and they both had dearly wished for Bianca to grow up with a real home, something neither of them had ever had. He wondered sometimes if that had been a mistake—had they allowed Bianca to train aboard the Temptress with her aunts, could he and Hawke have taken steps to free themselves of those who stalked them?

Fenris got up, going to the rail where Hawke was leaning out, looking down into the water. There was little point in imagining what might have happened, he decided, wrapping an arm around her waist. No one could fight the entire Imperium, after all. He turned his attention to his wife. "Is the sea a different color as we near the Free Marches?"

She straightened up, smiling at him. "No. But I wish it was, just so I could tell when we were getting closer."

"Soon enough." He slid the other arm around her waist, as well, holding her against him, and they watched the water flow by.

It was dark again by the time they came as near to Kirkwall as the captain felt comfortable going. Hawke handed over a few more coins that glinted gold in the sunset, and the captain and his son were back out to sea within moments. The son didn't spare Bianca a backward glance, and Fenris was relieved that she didn't seem to notice.

They hiked up the sandy hills of the Wounded Coast. Excitement was surging in Fenris's heart, despite all his attempts to remind himself what a perilous thing they were attempting. All around him were scenes that he remembered. The hillock where the Tal-Vashoth had fallen on Varric, his blood ruining Varric's coat. The promontory where Hawke had been held prisoner by the mages, and where they had been married in Varric's makeshift, unique, wonderful ceremony. The stretch of sand where they had once met a Dalish elf from Ferelden who was chasing a werewolf. Fenris had always wondered what the story was behind that.

Hawke led them toward a side gate, so little-used that Fenris hoped it hadn't been sealed over in their absence. Aveline had, of course, known about the gate's existence, and he thought it highly likely that the ever-cautious Viscountess would have done away with most of the various hiding-holes and secluded entrances they had all used, in order to keep other, less lawful, renegades from rising to take Hawke's place.

"Here goes nothing." Hawke tossed a grin over her shoulder at him, reaching into the dense ivy covering the gate for the handle. It held as she pulled up on it, but after some wiggling the rusty mechanism moved and the gate swung open. "Bless Aveline's heart."

They moved cautiously into Hightown, looking around to determine if the gate was being watched. It seemed safe; there were no obvious locations where someone could be concealed. Adjusting his cloak to be certain his markings were completely covered, Fenris followed Hawke and Bianca along the small alleys and side streets that led them to the wall surrounding the gardens of Hawke's estate. He hoped his wife was prepared to find her beloved garden fallen into disarray. They had left Orana, the young elven servant whom they had liberated from slavery long ago, in charge of the estate when they left. Varric's letters indicated Orana had done a fine job, but it was a large estate for one person to manage.

Hawke stood back to let Fenris scale the wall of the garden first. She didn't say much about it, but her side still pained her, the wound healing slowly.

Dropping softly into the dirt of a flowerbed, Fenris looked around him in shock. The garden was flourishing beautifully, flowers waving in the night-time breeze and herbs perfuming the air. Orana had put as much work into this as if Hawke was expected back at any moment.

Bianca landed next to him, and between the two of them they helped Hawke climb up and over. Fenris stood back to let his wife look on her garden. Even in the dim light, he could see the shimmer of tears in her eyes. "Look, Fenris. Look what she's done." Evelyn moved slowly through the garden, touching various plants gently, leaning over to smell the flowers. "It's just like I left it."

The house door opened and a small figure with a lantern appeared, looking out.

Hawke moved into the lantern-light. "Orana?" 

"Mistress!" There was delight in the elf's voice. "I was sure you would come home someday." Orana peered into the dark past Hawke, and Fenris moved forward, bringing a suddenly shy Bianca with him. "Master Fenris." Orana's tone was respectful; she and Fenris had never learned to be comfortable together as master and servant. Their backgrounds were too similar for that. "And the young mistress, too! What a happy day!" A tear slid down Orana's cheek, and she wiped it delicately away with a handkerchief she took from the sleeve of her dress. "Please, come inside. You must all be very weary."

Weary put it mildly, Fenris thought, allowing his wife and daughter to precede him. And the danger had only just begun. It would be a long time before they could truly rest, he suspected.


	3. Everything Old Is New Again

Evelyn couldn't believe her eyes as she followed Orana through the kitchens and into the main part of the house. She had expected to find a ghost house, the furniture shrouded and covered in dust, inhabited only by memories. But this house was alive, the furniture brightly polished, the fire crackling, candles giving the room a soft warm glow.

"Orana ..." The words wouldn't come. She wanted to ask why the elf had kept things this way when it would have been easier to leave the house closed off and only use the few rooms she needed. Had Orana been prepared all these years for them to return home? "Why? I mean, you ... Thank you."

"It has been my pleasure, mistress." The years had been kind to Orana—she looked youthful and sweet, as she always had, and had ceased applying her makeup so garishly. Evelyn could remember her mother sitting with Orana, trying to train her to be a proper lady, the proper lady Bethany might have been had she not been a mage but that Evelyn could never have achieved.

Bianca gasped, her eyes starry as she looked around the large, lavishly furnished room. How her mother would have doted on Bianca, Evelyn thought. She might even have accepted Evelyn's marriage to an elf when it brought her a granddaughter like this one.

It was all too much. After the ambush, the injury, the flight, to come home to this house her mother had grown up in, to sit in this room her mother had furnished ... Maybe coming back to Kirkwall had been a mistake, Evelyn thought. She'd thought of Varric and Aveline and thought 'home', but hadn't reckoned on the ghosts that awaited her here.

Then a warm hand clasped hers. Fenris's arm slid around her waist, and he said softly into her ear, "If she were here, she would have been used as a tool against us long ago."

It was such direct thinking, so utterly Fenris's unique point of view, that she had to laugh, the urge to cry receding. "You're probably right. That's the last thing she would have wanted."

He chuckled. "I believe I am the last thing she would have wanted for you."

"Possibly. I think she would have wanted to see me made Viscountess, and married off to some decorative but witless noble I could have overpowered, mentally and physically."

"You may try that later, if you like." His voice had dropped to a register that never failed to bring a response from her, and suddenly those were the memories that came flooding back—of Fenris, here in this house, when every now-familiar inch of him was new to be discovered.

"Count on it." She punctuated the comment with a soft breath blown across his sensitive ear, and he shivered against her.

Orana had taken advantage of Hawke's distraction to disappear and raid the kitchen. She reappeared now with a heavily laden tray of cheeses and fruit and cookies. "I'll have tea in a minute, just waiting for the kettle to boil. Little mistress, I didn't know what you would like, so I brought a bit of everything I had."

Shyly, Bianca said, "Thank you, Orana. But ... do you think you could call me Bianca? I'm not used to ... this." Her gesture encompassed the entirety of the high-ceilinged room with its ornate furniture, the portraits of the Amells staring haughtily down from the walls on their half-elf descendant, and the silver tray with its lavish contents. In Bianca's lifetime, they had never had access to such a wide selection of exotic foods as was displayed before her. She took a piece of candied pineapple, her eyes widening as the fresh, fruity taste flooded her mouth. Sinking down onto a low settee, Bianca tucked ravenously into the food.

Evelyn saw Varric's influence in the array of cookies on the tray. They had whiled away many hours together with tea and cookies, after nightly debauches with the Hanged Man's 'finest' ale began to pall. Tears filled her eyes as she took a cookie, chewy oatmeal raisin, her favorite. She could hardly believe that tomorrow she was going to see her friend again after so many years. Would he be surprised? Or did he already know she was here? Would he have changed? Would he think she had changed? She knew the years of running had taken a toll on her—had they changed her so much that her old friend wouldn't see in her what he had once seen?

"There will be time to be nervous later," Fenris said, reading her thoughts as he so often did. "For now, we should eat."

Her stomach growled sharply in response, and Evelyn laughed. "Apparently so."

They dug into the good food and gratefully drank the hot, strong tea Orana brought them, quizzing her on the state of affairs in Kirkwall generally and about those old friends who were still in residence there specifically. The housekeeper saw Varric on a fairly regular basis, but knew few of the other names. Tomwise, the Darktown poisons purveyor and avid Wicked Grace player; Norah, the waitress at the Hanged Man who never served Varric a drink; Athenril, leader of the gang of smugglers who had given Hawke her start in Kirkwall. Hawke wondered if she would see any of them, or if they had disappeared as the shadowy denizens of a busy city had a tendency to do. Bodahn and Sandal, the dwarves who had run the house during Evelyn's residence, had left for Orlais shortly after the Chantry was destroyed, and nothig had been heard of them in the years since. Gamlen had passed away several years ago, his body broken down from years of debauchery. Where Evelyn's cousin Charade had ended up, she wasn't certain.

At last Bianca yawned. Orana was instantly on her feet. "Oh, young mistress, er, Mistress Bianca! I should have thought how tired you must be. Please, let me show you to your room."

"My room? I have a room?"

Evelyn was startled, as well, but Orana smiled, shyly.

"Yes." She glanced at Evelyn, her cheeks coloring. "I hope you won't mind. I ... didn't know where to ask permission, but I thought ..."

"I'm sure it's fine," Evelyn said, smiling reassuringly at the elf, but Orana's discomfort didn't ease.

"Let me show you."

What could be so daring that it would cause Orana such distress? Unless it was Hawke's own room—but Orana turned to the left at the top of the stairs, and suddenly Evelyn knew which room the housekeeper was talking about. Her foot faltered on the step; she hadn't been inside her mother's room since Leandra had been taken by that bastard Quentin. Somewhere in Evelyn's mind had been the idea that if she never went in the room, if it stayed untouched, her mother wouldn't feel as gone. It had been a long time since Evelyn had thought much about her mother, but being here, in this house that had been Leandra's home, that Leandra had decorated, brought the memories back so vividly.

"Are you all right?" Fenris's hand went to the small of her back to steady her, but it was his voice that did it.

She took a deep breath, nodding at him, and followed Orana the rest of the way up the stairs.

Outside the door to Leandra's room, Orana paused, looking up at Hawke and wringing her hands. "It ... seemed as though this is what Lady Leandra would have wanted."

"You're right. It is." Tears misted Evelyn's eyes and she blinked them fiercely away. There was nothing her mother would have loved more than a grandchild, and there was no question Leandra would have given up her room and just about anything else for her granddaughter's comfort. She smiled at Orana, and the elf sighed with relief.

The door swung open under a light touch of Orana's hand, and Bianca caught her breath.

"You can see it much better in the daylight," Orana fretted, but Bianca moved into the room with shining eyes. The lack of good light clearly didn't bother her.

It was a beautiful room, the walls hand-painted in a climbing trellis of soothing lifelike green with red roses peeking out here and there. The carpet was soft under their feet, the furnishings painted white and comfortably arranged. Bianca moved like a person in a dream, walking to the bookcase and drawing her fingers over the stamped leather spines. They had been able to carry a few books with them, but not nearly as many as any of them would have liked, and the tall bookcase in front of her was a treasure trove. A chair was placed near the bookcase, large and comfortable looking. The bed was a four-poster, hung with dainty filmy draperies.

"Orana, it's so lovely. Thank you," Hawke said.

Tears were flowing down the elf's cheeks, but she was smiling, too. "I have been waiting for you to come home, Mistress. I owe you all so much ... I can never truly repay ..." She broke down, her shoulders shaking.

Fenris took a step back, his face tight and set. He had never been able to come to terms with the fact that Orana's family had been killed by Hadriana for the power of their blood—power Hadriana had needed to defeat Fenris. He felt a tremendous amount of guilt over Orana's situation, guilt that her gratitude for being set free had never been able to assuage.

Bianca flew across the room, throwing her arms fiercely around Orana. "Don't cry! This is beautiful. It's the best room ever! And the books, all my own books! Thank you so much!"

The elf sniffled a bit, feebly trying to withdraw herself from Bianca's embrace. "Mistress Bianca, please ... it's not seemly ..."

"Seemly?" Bianca looked baffled at the word, which Hawke couldn't remember ever having used in Bianca's presence.

Impulsively, Evelyn said, "Orana, you have gone above and beyond anything we ever would have expected of you. I—It would be my honor if you would allow me to settle a sum of money on you and—"

But Orana's horrified, tear-streaked face rose from Bianca's shoulder, the squeak of distress she gave cutting off Hawke's words. "Y-you're letting me go?"

"No! I want to reward you!"

"I did this for you. And for Lady Leandra. Your happiness is all the reward I ask for." The little elf's shoulders straightened, and she drew herself up with dignity, patting Bianca's shoulder and then looking up at Hawke. "You saved my life; I give it freely into your service." She looked defiantly toward Fenris, as if daring him to object to this form of self-imposed servitude, but he had backed out of the room, not comfortable with the level of emotion. "Mistress Bianca, I didn't know your sizes, but we'll measure you in the morning and have a fine wardrobe ready in just a few days." She dipped into a curtsey. "And now I'll say good-night."

"Good-night, Orana," Hawke and Bianca said, staring after the straight back of the housekeeper as she left the room.

Any comments they might have made were forestalled by the giant yawn that threatened to split Bianca's face in half.

"You go ahead and get some rest."

"You won't go off and go see Uncle Varric while I'm sleeping?" Bianca narrowed her green eyes at her mother suspiciously.

"No, trust me. Much as I want to see Varric, I'm too tired to sit up reminiscing and listening to his stories all night tonight." Evelyn laughed. "We'll wake you in the morning before we go see him."

"All right. Good-night, Mama." The young girl dug into her pack and lifted out her prized possession, a miniature repeating crossbow that had been sent to her by Varric long ago. She placed it carefully on a table that looked as if it had been waiting for the piece of somewhat battered equipment, lovingly dubbed "Ser Pointy".

"Good-night, Bianca." Evelyn smiled at the care her daughter had taken with the positioning of the object, watching as Bianca disrobed down to her shirt and climbed into the bed, pulling the soft quilted comforter over her.

She closed the bedroom door behind her and walked down the hall toward her own room. Fenris was waiting there, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, staring down at the carpet. Scowling, really. He was, after all these years, so breathtakingly sexy that Evelyn stopped still, just looking at him, feeling the air grow heavy around her. "Hello there."

He looked up, startled, clearly not having heard her approach. "Is Bianca settled?"

"Fast asleep already, I suspect." Evelyn smiled. "It's just the two of us."

"Not exactly."

"I'm sure Orana's asleep as well. Besides, if memory serves, she sleeps near the kitchen."

"Nonetheless."

She smiled at him. "Would you rather brood—er, discuss this in the hallway, or sleep in a real bed? And one which, if I recall correctly, is extremely comfortable?"

He frowned at her for a moment, but then what she'd said seemed to sink in, and a slow glimmer lit his beautiful green eyes. "Sleep?"

Evelyn could feel a warming deep inside at the tone of his voice, which evoked so many memories of being with him in that room, in this house. "Or not," she said, her voice light and happy.

"Hm." Fenris went into the room, casting an inviting glance at her over his shoulder. Evelyn followed him, watching the firelight dancing on his white hair, and Evelyn swallowed, her throat suddenly dry, as he turned around and began taking off the top half of his armor. She couldn't help thinking of the first time they had been together in this room, of the crippling fear that had gripped him that she wanted him only for his markings, that no one could possibly want him for who he was, with or without the lyrium. He couldn't take off his own armor, and wouldn't let her do it until she had drawn the curtains around the bed and plunged it into darkness. Today, he stood in the circle of illumination cast by the fire and shed his clothing while the light played along his still-muscular body until he stood before her, naked and proudly aroused.

Licking her lips, Evelyn stepped fully into the room, jumping when the forgotten door swung closed behind her. "It's been a long time." It had really only been a few days, but she meant something more than that. It had been a long time since they had been together in this room, since the headiness of the early days of their relationship when they had conquered the biggest threats they could imagine and nothing lay ahead of them but a lifetime of each other.

"Come here, Hawke," he said, his voice rasping over the words, and she moved toward him as if in a dream, meeting his mouth with hers. He took his time with the pins in her hair, his fingers sliding through each fallen lock. Evelyn was uncomfortably aware of how long it had been since she'd had a chance to properly wash her hair, but Fenris didn't seem to notice as he buried his face in the chestnut strands. When her hair hung loose around her face, Fenris turned his attention to the rest of her clothes, stripping her efficiently but slowly, his fingers barely skimming her skin as he did so.

When she was naked, he put his hands on her shoulders, sliding them down until they closed on her upper arms. Gently, he pushed her backward until she was pressed against the bedpost. Fenris threaded his fingers through her hair on either side of her head, leaning his forehead against hers. "Evelyn."

Her eyes closed of their own volition as their naked bodies rubbed together. Fenris kissed her temple, then her cheek, then nuzzled her jawline, whispering her name again. He scraped his teeth along her neck, biting carefully, just enough to make her cry out. "Evelyn."

"Fenris!"

His hands were at her waist now, holding her as his lips moved over her collarbone to find the soft upper swell of her breast. "Evelyn." He cupped the heavy mounds in his hands, his thumbs flicking over her nipples. At her gasp, his mouth turned up at the corners in a lazy smile, and he pinched the nipples lightly between his long fingers.

Evelyn grabbed him by the hair, pulling his mouth up to kiss him. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close against her, losing herself in the passionate kisses they exchanged. Slowly they shifted until Fenris could ease her onto the bed, his eyes roaming over her naked body. "Evelyn," he said again, his voice rough. She shivered at the tone. There was a longing there that she hadn't heard in quite some time. She held her arms out and he joined her on the bed, burying his face in her hair as it spread across the coverlet. "Evelyn."

"Fenris, what's wrong?" She held him close, concerned by the increasing stridency with which he called her name. "What is it?"

He shook his head. "It is nothing. Truly. Just ... being here. It's odd. So familiar and yet so ..."

"Not," she finished for him. "Would you rather just get some sleep? You must be so tired."

Fenris raised himself on one elbow, looking into her eyes. "And waste this opportunity, with you naked beneath me?" He smiled at her. "I may be weary, but I am no fool."

"Kiss me, then." She shifted beneath him, drawing his head down to her and kissing him slowly and thoroughly. When he raised his head to take a breath, Evelyn nudged him over onto his back. She trailed her tongue along one of the lyrium markings along his chest, enjoying the sharp hiss he gave at the contact and the restlessness of his body as her mouth continued to follow the lines of lyrium. She couldn't do this too long; the markings were so sensitive that soon the stimulation would cross into pain. She nipped at one of the glowing lines on his stomach, and he cried out, his body bucking beneath her. Evelyn shifted backward, allowing her breasts to brush his hardened length before enveloping it in her mouth, reveling in his moans.

He pushed at her shoulders after a few minutes. "Evelyn!"

She let go with a final lick. "You asked for it."

With a growl, he sat up, his hand sliding down her stomach and between her legs. "Before I finish with you, you will be begging," he promised huskily. He stroked her with a maddeningly light touch as she swayed with his movements and tried to press herself against his fingers. He took his hand away and Evelyn moaned in protest. On his knees now, he moved closer. "Hold still," he commanded, lowering his head to take a nipple in his mouth as his hand returned to her aching center.

Evelyn grabbed the bedposts, holding on as Fenris continued to tease her with mouth and hand. She moaned, her hips circling as his fingers thrust inside her. "Please, Fenris."

"What was that?" His mouth was very close to her ear and he nipped at the lobe.

"Please." Her voice was stronger now, and she let go of the bedpost and reached between them to stroke his throbbing length. "Now."

"As you command." There was a chuckle in his voice as they lay back together. Evelyn parted her legs beneath him, a gasp of pleasure escaping her as he found her center and thrust firmly.

She reached up, one hand along his cheek. He nuzzled against her, still moving slowly but steadily.

"I love you, Fenris."

"And I you." He lowered his head, trailing kisses over her cheeks and finally claiming her lips, a deep kiss connecting them as their bodies peaked and cooled. As they lay together under the strange but familiar covers, watching the shadows cast by the fire, Fenris took her hand in his, kissing her fingers. "Welcome home, Hawke."


	4. In the Eye of the Beholder

It was the lack of sound that woke her. Bianca Vael Hawke was used to awakening to the sounds and bustle of people around her, the walls of the small houses they had lived in over the last several years having been very thin. But here the walls were thick and any noise might have been muffled. Not that there was any—this was Hightown, after all. Kirkwall's richest citizens liked their peace and quiet, especially in the mornings as they rested up from the previous night's revelries.

Bianca sat up in the bed, her braid of black hair swinging over her shoulder as she bounced on the soft mattress with excitement. They were finally here! And her mother's mansion was even more beautiful than she had imagined it would be. The high ceilings, the opulent appointments, the luxuriously comfortable furnishings were all a far cry from what she had lived with her whole life. If they could afford all this, what had they been doing running and hiding for so long?

She got up and went to the window, pulling aside the heavy drapery to look outside. Hightown shone in the morning sunlight, the white walls and freshly scrubbed cobblestones gleaming. A man in a dark blue jacket strolled along the street below her. Off to work, Bianca suspected. Or did people in Hightown work? What did they do all day? Her parents had never told her much about the ways of the wealthy.

A light knock at the door interrupted her reflections. She let the curtain drop, turning toward the door as she called "Come in!"

Orana poked her head into the room. "I thought you wouldn't sleep late this morning. It must be strange, sleeping in an unfamiliar bed."

"I'm just excited to be here," Bianca said. "This is so different from anywhere I've ever lived." Orana didn't respond, and Bianca followed the housekeeper's gaze to the small crossbow that lay on the table. "Uncle Varric sent me that when I was just a little girl. Tell me, Orana, what's he really like? I've only ever heard stories."

The housekeeper turned a becoming shade of pink. "Serah Varric is ... unique," she said. "You will have to make your own judgement when you meet him."

Bianca frowned. Did grown-ups know how tiresome it was when they refused to answer direct questions? Her annoyance manifested in the unconscious imperiousness of her next statement. "I'm hungry. I want breakfast."

"Of course, Mistress Bianca. Will you have it before or after you bathe?"

"Bath, I think. And did you say something about clothes? Most of mine burnt up in the fire. Not that they were anything special."

"A seamstress will meet you here this afternoon. I have taken the liberty of borrowing a suitable outfit for you to wear today. It is not in the first blush of fashion, but it should do."

The first blush of fashion? Bianca couldn't help the leap of excitement she felt. Fashion had never been part of her world before; she couldn't wait to get out into the streets of Kirkwall and see what everyone was wearing. "Are my parents awake?"

"I believe so. I suspect they will be ready for breakfast about the time you are—assuming you will let me go and draw your bath." Orana's eyes twinkled and Bianca laughed.

"Point taken. I'll let you go."

Bianca bathed in the tub two elven maids brought in and put on the plain blue dress Orana had provided, then followed the housekeeper out of the room, glancing wistfully back over her shoulder. She'd never dreamed of having such a pretty room all to herself; anxious as she was to see the rest of Kirkwall and the old friends her parents had spoken so much about, part of her just wanted to stay in this quiet room all day investigating the titles in the bookshelf.

Mama and Papa were already at the breakfast table when Bianca came downstairs. Her parents seemed happier than she'd seen them in quite a while, holding hands and smiling at one another.

"Did you sleep well, Bianca?" Papa asked.

"Oh, yes! Did you see my room? It's so pretty! I've never seen anything so pretty."

"That was your grandmother's room," Mama said, looking a little sad. "I know she'd have been happy to give it to you, though."

"Will Aunt Bethany be meeting us here?" Bianca asked, wondering what kinds of stories her merry aunt would have about this estate.

"Probably; we'll send a message to the Temptress later this morning. Bethany won't stay in the mansion, though. She never lived here."

"She didn't? Was she already with Aunt Isabela?"

"No, that came later. Most of the time we lived in Kirkwall, your aunt was in the Circle of Magi."

"Oh." Bianca knew to leave that subject alone. It wasn't that Mama and Papa disagreed, precisely, just that Papa was sure and Mama wasn't. Bianca loved her funny, warm aunt and disagreed with any policy that would have locked someone like that up simply because they used magic. But she rarely ventured that opinion, finding the dark anger that took her father over when she did so too frightening.

"I wonder if the Gallows is still there," Papa said.

"I think so," Mama replied.

Further conversation on the topic was forestalled by Orana and the two elven maids appearing with silver-domed plates and a tray of coffee. As the family dug into the food, the doorbell rang. Mama dropped her cup, spilling coffee across the white tablecloth, and Papa's fork clattered on his plate as he stood up and activated the lyrium in his markings. They exchanged concerned glances, both poised for action. Bianca looked from one to the other in surprise. What could possibly happen to them here in Kirkwall?

Orana had bustled to the door in answer to the ringing. She came back beaming, bearing a note and a large, unwieldy box, which she set down near the table; one of the other maids followed with two smaller boxes. Mama took the note, unfolding it and scanning the page. Instantly, a grin lit her face. "That scamp."

"What is it?" Papa asked, relaxing slightly and letting the markings fade.

"Open your box." At a gesture from Mama, the maid brought the smaller of her two boxes over to Papa. He pried off the lid and lifted a bottle of wine from a bed of straw. "Agreggio Pavali! Varric," he said, nodding his head as he smiled.

Mama watched him, her eyes dancing. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Aren't you going to throw it at the wall?"

"Do not be foolish," he said, but he met Mama's eyes with a warm look that made Bianca feel out of place in the room.

"Little mistress," Orana said as the maid placed the larger box in front of Bianca.

"From Uncle Varric?" Bianca asked. When a nod from her mother confirmed it, she stood up in her seat, eagerly opening the box. A froth of delicate pale pink fabric and white lace spilled out.

"Ooh!" Orana helped her lift the dress from the box, both of them admiring the soft color and beautiful cut.

"Can I wear it today?" She glanced at Orana for guidance, sure that neither of her parents would know. When the housekeeper nodded, Bianca beamed.

"What does Varric say?" Papa asked.

"He says: 'Hawke – What, Mystery Stew not good enough for you anymore? Knowing you and the elf, I could understand you not coming over at bedtime, but to wait until after breakfast? Words fail me.'"

"Perhaps we should eat faster, then."

"We could always try the Mystery Stew."

"It would be better than fish chowder." He smiled at Mama so she could see he meant the fish and not her cooking.

"May I go change?" Bianca asked, unable to remain still in her seat.

With permission granted, she picked up her box and hurried up the stairs, not even pausing to see what her mother had gotten. She came back down wearing the beautiful dress. It had bows and ribbons and a lacy white underskirt that showed where the pink overskirt had been looped up, and it was absolutely the loveliest thing she'd ever worn. Or seen, for that matter.

Her father and mother rolled their eyes at each other, but Bianca was so in love with the dress, and with her own coloring set off by the paleness of the pink, her dark hair curled and falling over one shoulder, that she didn't care what they thought.

"Orana, I assume this is what all the girls are wearing?" Mama asked. At the housekeeper's nod, Mama sighed. "I should have known better than to distrust Varric's taste. Still, it's better than those horrible clashing colors and garish silks all the men used to wear." She quirked an eyebrow at Papa. "Maybe that's what I liked about you."

"The mystery is revealed at last," he responded. "To think of the years I have spent pondering that question, and all along the answer was my fashion sense."

Mama was wearing new armor, a fine set in sage green. That must have been her gift from Varric, Bianca thought. "How did Uncle Varric manage to have all this ready for us? He knew my size, and that we were here last night ..." 

Both her parents shrugged. "He's Varric," they said, as though that was enough.

They set out into the morning. Papa glanced around worriedly as they left the estate, but there was no danger that Bianca could see. She followed her parents, her eyes drawn here and there to the opulence and splendor that was Hightown. Nothing about the city disappointed her; it was all just as she had imagined, if not better ... until they began down the long set of stairs that led them to Lowtown. A sour smell wafted up the stairs, striking Bianca's nose unpleasantly, and the steps and the walls on either side of them got dirtier as they descended, starting out white at the top and turning a dingy yellowish color by the time they'd reached the halfway point. Toward the bottom, refuse piled up in the corners, and people slept beneath it. The stench increased, and Bianca swallowed against it. This was Lowtown? This was where her mother had lived for her first two years in Kirkwall? It smelled worse than the fishing village. Bianca pulled the skirts of her dress closely around her to keep them from being sullied.

The smell of sulfur permeated the air around the base of the stairs—from the foundries, her parents explained. They looked exhilarated, exchanging animated do-you-remembers with one another.

A loud clamor met Bianca's ears as they turned a corner at the bottom of the stairs, and she found herself amidst a marketplace. Her mother, taller than most of the women and some of the men, looked over the heads of the crowd with an expression of disappointment. Apparently none of the vendors she used to know were here. They went down another small set of stairs, and up one more. Bianca was completely lost, and she chastised herself for it. Hadn't Papa drilled into her the importance of looking around, knowing where you were and how to get back where you came from?

She was aware of the stench of beer and other spirits and the sounds of riotous laughter as they came toward a rickety building with the statue of a man hanging by his feet in front of it. 

Bianca hung back as her mother pushed open the door, and she didn't enter until her father had, touching the sticky door as gingerly as she could.

Inside it was dimly lit, but the low light couldn't hide the scorch marks on the walls, the scuffs on the floor, the broken legs of the chairs and tables. Bianca couldn't believe this was the Hanged Man—none of the stories her parents had told about the place, and they were many, had come close to describing it like this.

It wasn't until her mother cried out "Varric!" that Bianca saw the dwarf. He was seated at a corner table, his legs up on a footstool. In the shabby room, Varric was the only thing that looked clean and refined. His blond hair was pushed back, his shirt open practically to his waist, his coat cut impeccably. And behind him—Bianca. The famous crossbow, gleaming in the dim candlelight and much larger than Bianca the person had expected.

Varric came toward her mother. "Hawke. It's about sodding time." But his cheeks were wet, as were Mama's, as she dropped to her knees and embraced him. They held each other for what seemed like a long time. Bianca looked away after a few moments, feeling that she had intruded on an intimate moment and not entirely comfortable seeing her mother weeping. Hawke never cried if she could help it.

Eventually they pulled apart. Varric pulled a handkerchief out of his luxurious expanse of chest hair, handing it to Mama.

"You know what tears do to my coat," he said, but he smiled, and his voice was suspiciously watery as well. At last he looked over Mama's shoulder, reaching out a hand to Papa. "Elf. Do you ever age?"

Shaking Varric's hand, Papa said, "I could ask you the same thing."

And then it was Bianca's turn. "Princess, you look exactly the way I thought you would. It is my very great pleasure to meet you—at last."

"And mine, Uncle Varric. Thank you for my crossbow, and my dress, and ... and everything!" Impulsively, and completely forgetting what the sticky dirty floor would do to her skirt, she fell to her knees and put her arms around his neck. Varric chuckled, patting her on the back.

"Two beautiful women kneeling before me in a matter of minutes. I'm either dreaming, or I've turned into some kind of mythical hero."

"That'll be the day," said the man behind the bar.

"Corff, you're still here?" Mama asked. "I'd have thought you would have sold out and moved somewhere far away by now."

He shook his head, chuckling. "Good to see you back, Champion."

"Good to be back."

Bianca was surprised to see a dark look pass over her father's face at the use of the term "Champion". Varric had noticed it, too, and he sidled up close to Papa while Mama was still chatting with the bartender.

"Chantry doesn't know she's back yet. They're not much of a presence in Kirkwall," Varric said, keeping his voice low. "Aveline keeps them on a short leash, the price of doing business here."

"What do they want from her?"

"Ostensibly? To question her about her role in what happened here. In actuality? Hard to say, but I imagine parading her through the streets of Val Royeaux as an example of what they do to people who defy them is a safe bet." He shrugged. "I wouldn't worry too much about them."

"And the Tevinters?"

Varric was quiet, and Papa's lips tightened. "How many?"

"None at the moment, but they know. Their information-gathering systems aren't as good as mine, of course, but they're impressive by any other standards."

"You will let me know when they arrive?"

"Of course."

Papa looked as though he wanted to say something else, but Mama looked around then. "Varric, any plans for the day?"

"I thought we'd take a stroll back up to Hightown, meet up with some other old friends."

Mama and Papa exchanged a look, and Mama laughed. "I think I need a rest before I tackle those stairs again. To think, I can remember the time when I was up and down those things four or five times a day."

Varric grinned. "I wasn't looking forward to them at this hour of the morning myself. Let's have a chat, shall we? Oh, but first, there's someone I want you to meet." He gestured to a young man who had been sitting at the table watching the reunion. As he stood to his full height, Bianca realized the man was an elf, his ears nearly hidden by a profusion of curly dark brown hair. He approached the group shyly, his eyes on Mama. "Hawke, Broody, Princess, this is Kethali. His mother sent him here because she had a feeling he would be needed."

"His mother?" Papa asked, his voice thick with suspicion.

"How is Merrill?" Mama asked. She and Varric looked at each other, the dwarf's eyes serious as Bianca had not yet seen them.

"Mamae is not well," Kethali answered. "She would have come herself otherwise. A sickness swept our part of Denerim, and Mamae contracted the ailment trying to give aid to the victims. She has yet to recover her strength."

"She can heal now?"

"No, but she can administer aid while others do." The quiet pride with which he spoke made it clear that he had done at least some of the healing. Bianca looked Kethali over with renewed interest now that she knew he was a mage. He was shorter than her parents, but a bit taller than she was. His curly hair fell over his forehead; his eyes were a clear deep elven green. "Champion, Serah Fenris, it is my very great pleasure to meet you. I am at your service; any assistance I can render you is nothing compared to what you both did for Mamae."

Papa wanted to argue, that much was clear to Bianca. And then Kethali turned his gaze to her, and she no longer cared what her father thought. The young elf looked at her with appreciation, and something in his face caused excitement to jump in her spine. She very nearly wriggled with it, and the blood rushed to her cheeks.

"Miss Bianca, I am glad to meet you."

"And I you," she said breathlessly, holding her hand out. Kethali took it in both of his, his hands cool to the touch. Bianca stood, staring at him, for a long moment before Papa cleared his throat and she looked hastily away from the young elf.

"Corff, a round on me," Mama called.

"Just like old times," Corff said. "Nice to have a customer who might actually pay again."

"Hey!" Uncle Varric chuckled as he led the way back to his table.


	5. The Horrors of Hightown

It was surreal to be sitting here again, drinking the Hanged Man's dreadful ale and listening to Varric expound. If the dwarf had changed at all in the years since they'd last seen each other, Fenris certainly couldn't tell.

Hawke was glowing, sitting next to Varric, trading quips and telling stories. Bianca hung on every word ... when she wasn't staring in fascination at the witch's son. Kethali seemed equally distracted by Fenris's daughter, and Fenris didn't like that in the least. No mage was getting his hands on Bianca, not if he had anything to say about it.

"What do you say, Fenris?" Hawke asked, in the slightly elevated tone that said she'd already asked the question more than once.

"I'm sorry, say about what? I am afraid my thoughts were wandering."

"Is it time to go see Aveline and Donnic?"

"Do we need to make an appointment? She is the Viscountess, after all."

Hawke grinned, her eyes twinkling. "Hardly. If she doesn't already know I'm here, her sources aren't good enough."

"They're good," Varric said, "but not that good." He looked up at Hawke speculatively. "I'll be interested to see what you think of her."

"Why? Has she changed?"

"You could say that."

"Then let's go! What are we waiting for?"

Fenris got to his feet in response to his wife's enthusiasm, his smile turning into a frown when the mage boy got up as well, offering a courtly arm to Bianca. "My daughter is perfectly capable of walking," he growled.

The mage blinked, but Bianca stepped between them, offering her prettiest smile to the boy. "Actually, in these shoes ..." She pointed out a dainty ankle in a ridiculous high-heeled white boot.

"I will be happy to walk with you," Fenris said, taking her by the arm and sweeping her out of the tavern. This was all Varric's fault, springing that mageling on them with no notice whatsoever.

"Papa, slow down! We're leaving the others behind!" Bianca said breathlessly.

"Those are foolish shoes."

She sighed, looking down on them. "Yes, they are. But they're so pretty!"

"When your aunts arrive, they can take you shopping for clothing that is functional as well as attractive." He stopped when it occurred to him that he had just recommended Isabela as a fashion consultant to his not-quite-sixteen-year-old daughter. "Er, perhaps just your Aunt Bethany."

Bianca tried to hide her smile, and failed. "All right, Papa."

Hawke and Varric and the mage child were following them at a short distance. A man with an armload of bananas cut across in front of them, jostling Hawke, passing on by without so much as an apology. She looked after him in surprise, then laughed at something Varric had said. Fenris watched her for a moment, thinking how unutterably lucky he was to have drawn her attention all those years ago, before Bianca tugged at his arm.

They continued up the steps toward Hightown, joining the flow of traffic. More business was conducted on these stairs than in the halls of the Viscount's Keep—or at least, it had been. These people seemed intent on getting where they were going, moving in a steady flow. Anyone who disrupted the pace was snarled at.

And then Fenris found himself staring at another elf who had stopped directly in front of him. He had grey hair, and the side of his face was disfigured. It appeared that the skin there had shrunk, pulling the corner of the elf's eye down and the corner of his mouth up and tugging his nose off to the right. Fenris attempted to determine some familiarity in the face, but it was fruitless.

"Fenris?"

The voice did it. "Tomwise!" The poisons maker had been a friend of Hawke's, and Fenris's frequent partner at Wicked Grace. "I would not have recognized you."

Tomwise grimaced. "Right. I had a bit of an accident with a new recipe. It was a long time ago. Good to see you back, though."

Hawke had reached them by now. "It's good to be back, Tomwise," Fenris said, adding the elf's name on purpose when he saw Hawke squinting at the disfigured face.

"Maker!" Hawke exclaimed. "I can't believe you're still around, you old alchemist, you."

"Don't do much these days," Tomwise said. He lifted his hands, and Fenris could see that they were scarred like his face.

Varric and Tomwise exchanged nods.

Bianca's fidgeting brought her to her father's attention. "Tomwise, our daughter Bianca. Bianca, this is Tomwise."

To her credit, Bianca didn't flinch, reaching out a lace-gloved hand to shake Tomwise's scarred one. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Serah Tomwise. I've heard a lot about you."

The elf smiled. "Bianca, eh? It's a fine name, miss. The pleasure's all mine."

They all stood looking at each other for a long, awkward moment.

"We should be going," Varric said. "Places to be."

"Business as usual, eh, Hawke? Can't offer you much in the way of potions, but if you need anything, I'm sure I know someone who can get it for you. Same place as always."

"Thank you, Tomwise."

Fenris stood watching the other elf descend the stairs, looking as though he carried a personal cloud of gloom with him. Hawke had always remembered Kirkwall with a sweet spice of nostalgia flavoring her recollections, but what had happened to their old friend was more in keeping with Fenris's own darker imaginings.

Bianca tugged at his arm. "Come on, Papa!"

"Yes, yes, coming," he said impatiently.

Hawke and the others were already half a flight ahead of them, weaving their way through the traffic on the stairs. To Fenris's eye, the people of Kirkwall hadn't changed much. Overdressed dwarves of the Merchants' Guild, Coterie members in their drab and well-used leathers lounging against the walls, Hightown nobles with well-dressed elven servants trailing behind them. Many of them glanced at him with Bianca on his arm, but he scowled at all and sundry and no one bothered to ask the questions written on their faces.

They emerged from the stairwell into Hightown several yards behind Hawke and the others; Bianca's ridiculous shoes had slowed her progress considerably. Fenris could barely hear the exchange as Hawke approached one of their Hightown neighbors, a smile on her face and her hand out. The noble looked down his nose at Hawke, brushing her hand away as though he didn't recognize her. When Hawke tried to remind him, he informed her, haughtily, that the Champion of Kirkwall had been killed by pirates years ago.

Hawke looked at Varric in consternation. The dwarf denied any part in the story, although Fenris wondered. Putting it about that Hawke was dead might have kept the Chantry from pursuing her. Not that its minions had ever gone after her with any great seriousness—it was the Tevinters who had pushed them from home to home, he reminded himself, his hand closing more firmly over Bianca's. He thought back to Tomwise, wondering if the poison-maker's sailor friend was still alive, and if so, if he still worked the Tevinter trade routes. It would be well to know who was in power in the Imperium, Fenris decided.

They were entering the courtyard of the Viscount's Keep now, the orange-armored guardsmen stationed along the sides watching the odd party as they passed. Most of them nodded cordially at Varric; none appeared to recognize Hawke.

By the time they reached the giant front doors of the Keep, Fenris and Bianca had caught up with the others. He hoped her discomfort in the resplendent outfit had taught her the appropriate lesson about considering her looks more highly than her skills. Her mother, after all, had always been beautiful and yet had never forgotten that she was a warrior. He felt his daughter would do better to emulate her mother more—it was one of his more prosaic misgivings about their change of residence. He did not want Bianca's head turned by the attentions of utterly unsuitable young men. Young men, for example, like the mage boy who was smiling rather too familiarly at Bianca at this very moment. Donnic and Aveline had a large number of sons, did they not? Perhaps one of their boys might be persuaded to turn his eyes in Bianca's direction; surely any son of Donnic's would be a suitable mate. The fact that they were human and this mage was an elf made no difference to Fenris, who had never felt any particular affinity toward other elves or any desire to perpetuate his race.

Varric was being hailed by one of the nobles milling around in the entry-way of the Keep.

The dwarf grunted unhappily. "Damned Merchant's Guild, sticking me with this guy's account. Excuse me a minute, Hawke. I'll catch up."

"Sure." Evelyn continued up the steps toward Aveline's office, going into the antechamber. A young man with pince-nez on his thin nose stood up as Hawke attempted to go past him into Aveline's office.

"Excuse me, miss, do you have an appointment?"

Hawke looked around her for the "miss" the young man might be speaking to, eventually realizing he meant her. She drew herself up to her full height. "I'm an old friend."

"Really." The scathing look on the secretary's face spoke volumes.

"My name is Evelyn Hawke."

"And?"

"And ... you may have heard of me?"

"Hardly." The secretary moved behind his desk, scanning the open page of a book that lay on it. "You do not have an appointment; the Viscountess sees no one without one." He looked up at Hawke, his glance passing over Fenris and Bianca and the mage boy as if they didn't exist. "You will have to leave."

"Just go tell her I'm here."

"That is quite impossible." The secretary resumed his place behind the desk, picking up his pen. Without looking up at Hawke, he said, "If you do not leave, I will have to call the guards."

Fenris's heart went out to his wife. Neither of them had considered how accustomed she was to being treated with courtesy and respect by the citizens of Kirkwall, or that the passage of time would have all but erased her memory from the minds of the populace. 

"Then call them," Hawke said, folding her arms over her chest. "Because I am not leaving my friend's office without her knowing that I'm here."

Giving a long-suffering sigh, the secretary raised a languid hand, lifting a silver bell and ringing it.

No one moved or spoke as they waited. At last, heavy steps sounded in the hall outside. Fenris's eyes opened wide in surprise as a large man with grey streaks in his black hair came around the corner.

Evelyn recognized him as well, a smile spreading across her face as she approached him. "Jalen?"

He stopped still, blinking at her. "Serah Hawke? What are you—I mean, what brings you back to Kirkwall?"

Fenris's eyes darted from one to the other. Jalen and Hawke had dated, briefly, in the time when Fenris was struggling with his fears and sense of unworthiness. At the time, he had considered Jalen one of his more serious rivals for Evelyn's affections—serious enough to offer the man spurious advice that had led to a truly disastrous date.

"It's a long story, Jalen," Hawke said.

"I would imagine so." He looked at the young man behind the desk, who was watching with avid curiosity. "Have you called for me to see the Champion, Rex? This is truly a glad day for us all."

"Champion? She said her name was Hare."

"Hawke," Evelyn corrected.

"Right."

"And you don't know the name of the Champion of Kirkwall?" Jalen shook his head. "You very nearly cost yourself your job. If the Viscountess found out you had nearly turned her oldest friend away at the door ..."

"I-I'll go tell her right now," Rex squeaked, nearly knocking his chair over in his haste to stand up and rush out of the room. He knocked lightly at the door of the Viscountess's office before going in.

"WHAT?" The voice that came through the slightly open door was unquestionably Aveline's.

"Oh, good, you haven't seen her yet," Varric said at Fenris's elbow. "I wouldn't want to have missed this."

Fenris looked down at the dwarf, raising his eyebrows, but he didn't have time to venture a comment before the door was flung open.

"HAWKE!" Aveline appeared, and Fenris understood what Varric had been speaking of.

The Viscountess of Kirkwall was ... ponderous. Aveline had always been a powerfully built woman, but now she had increased in girth, as though each of the cares of state had added a layer to her body. On another woman, perhaps, it would merely have been fat, but Aveline carried it well and bore with her the illusion that she had gained height as well as weight.

She took Hawke by the shoulders. "Where in the name of Andraste's forgotten virtue have you been?"

"Um ... around?"

It was clear to Fenris that Evelyn was struggling to get used to her old friend's new look.

"Keeping up only through this scamp?" Aveline said, giving a sideways glare to Varric. "If you ever do that again, I'll hunt you down myself."

"Yes, serah!" Evelyn laughed, and after a moment Aveline did as well, and the two women embraced for a long time.

It wasn't hard for Fenris to imagine the thoughts that must be going through his wife's head. She had left Lothering with her mother, her sister, and Aveline. Of the three, Aveline had always been the closest to Evelyn's mindset; the two women had understood each other, and although Aveline had made her way in Kirkwall largely on her own, she had never forgotten the debt she owed Evelyn or the deep, abiding friendship they shared.

"All right, where is he?" Aveline pulled back, looking for Fenris. Her eyes were suspiciously wet, but she didn't dignify the tears as she moved toward him. "I think of you every time I put a nest of slavers away," she said. It appeared she might embrace him, which Fenris steeled himself to accept with equanimity, but she stopped and held out her hand instead.

As he took it, he said, "I appreciate your efforts, as always. May I present Bianca?"

Aveline's green eyes turned on the young girl, sweeping her up and down. "Not a warrior, I see." She glanced questioningly at Fenris.

"Bianca's skills are with daggers," he said, and he saw Aveline's shoulders drop slightly in relief.

Giving a low curtsey, Bianca said, "I'm so pleased to meet you, Viscountess."

"Please. Aunt Aveline, to you."

"Aunt Aveline."

"That's better." Aveline beamed. "This is the best day I've had in a long time." She looked over her shoulder at the secretary. "Rex, I'm taking the rest of the day off. Cancel everything."

"Everything, serah?" He blanched. "The Orlesian ambassador ..."

"The Orlesian ambassador can stuff it."

"Yes, serah."

"Oh, and Rex? These people have carte blanche. Anything they want, any time they want it. Understood?"

"Understood." Thoroughly chastened, Rex sank back into his seat, fumbling for vellum and ink to begin writing notes cancelling the rest of Aveline's busy day. It was clearly not a task he was prepared to enjoy.

Without another look at her secretary, Aveline took Bianca by the arm and led her out of the office. "Now, tell me all about yourself."

Fenris hung back, walking with Hawke and Varric.

"When did ... that ... happen?" Hawke asked, gesturing at the weighty figure in front of her.

Varric shrugged. "It was pretty gradual, although I suspect the four babies had something to do with it. There were a lot of snickers about the Viscountess trying to repopulate the guards single-handedly."

"Hm. I can imagine Aveline as the mother of four boys," Fenris said.

"If she's as tightly wrapped around her sons' fingers as you are around your daughter's, Kirkwall is in big trouble," Hawke said, grinning at him.

"Oh, she is." Varric chuckled. "If it weren't for Donnic, those boys would have torn the city to pieces by now."

"So they are not well-behaved?" Fenris frowned. So much for his match-making plans.

"Depends on who you're asking."

Varric stopped as Aveline paused in front of the door to the family suite. Inside they could hear an uproar that made the Lowtown market seem quiet. Fenris turned to Varric with his eyebrows raised and the dwarf gave a confirming grin in return.

"Brace yourselves," he said as the door opened.

Two large objects barrelled through the empty space, pulling up only inches from running into Aveline and Bianca. At a clearing of Aveline's throat, both boys immediately stood at attention, looking sheepish.

"What is the meaning of this behavior?"

"Sorry, Mom," they said in unison and then, still as one, continued, "but it was his fault!"

"I don't doubt it." She attempted to appear stern, but a smile glimmered at the corner of her mouth. "Very well. Apologize to each other and don't do it again."

As both boys nodded their head, the younger one caught his breath, clearly having noticed the visitors. He nudged his brother, and both of them looked around wide-eyed before their eyes settled on Varric. A disturbing gleam came into both pairs of green eyes. "Uncle Varric!" the younger one said. "Bring any more ... um ..." He let his voice trail off with a guilty glance at his mother.

"Varric, we'll talk later about whatever illicit substances you've been supplying these scapegraces with," Aveline said. "You two, get your behinds inside so I can introduce you all properly, now that you've embarrassed me as usual."

It was clear to Fenris that Aveline's bark was much worse than her bite, as she draped an arm over each narrow set of young shoulders and led everyone into the family apartments.

"Dad!" The youngest wriggled out from under his mother's arm and ran off.

Fenris could feel a smile begin. He had to admit he was very much looking forward to seeing Donnic.

With a thundering sound, two more pairs of running feet approached. Two older boys skidded to a stop behind the littlest one, their eyes passing over their mother and resting squarely on Bianca's pretty face.

And then there was Donnic, hair slightly greyed but otherwise as tall and serious and straight-shouldered as ever. As he came into the room the curiosity on his face was replaced by a broad smile. "Aren't you all a sight for sore eyes." He took two long strides across the room and caught Fenris up in an exuberant hug, which Fenris resisted stiffly before relaxing and allowing the moment. They had never been demonstrative in this way, but surely this was a special occasion. Donnic was the first to separate them, holding Fenris by the shoulders and studying him. "You have not aged a day, my friend, unlike the rest of us. What brings you back to Kirkwall?"

"It's a rather long story," Hawke said.

"We must hear all about it." Donnic flashed a smile at Hawke, grasping her hand in both of his. "Champion. Kirkwall hasn't been the same without you."

"I'm sure that's been a relief."

Aveline laughed, and Varric grinned widely at Hawke's comment, but Fenris was sure there was some truth to the quip—he imagined Kirkwall without them was significantly quieter.

"Now, I believe there are introductions to be made?" Donnic looked inquiringly at Bianca.

"Yes, of course. Donnic, our daughter Bianca Vael." It was important to Fenris to add her middle name, to acknowledge that Sebastian, the friend whose absence in this scene he vividly felt, had not been forgotten.

"Bianca, welcome to Kirkwall."

"Thank you, serah."

Donnic turned, his hand sweeping down the row of tall boys. "And these are our rascals, who keep Kirkwall hopping as well as you ever did, Serah Hawke." He pointed at the tallest, a serious dark-haired young man, who bowed with Donnic's own grace. "Benoit." The next one down had Aveline's ginger hair and a twinkle in his brown eyes that was all his own. "Freddy." Then the two who had been fighting in the hallway—the elder one red-haired, the younger dark, but both messy of hair and with the air of a scapegrace about them. "And Piers and Arik."

"Otherwise known as the Horrors of Hightown," Varric put in.

"Sadly, that's true," Aveline said. "Boys?"

At her prodding, the younger three emulated Benoit's bow. Once released from their line by a nod from their father, both the younger boys went straight for Kethali, begging for displays of magic. The mage complied, creating a small ball of energy that he tossed from hand to hand. His glance at Bianca said entertaining the boys wasn't his first choice of activity.

Freddy and Benoit both approached Bianca in their very different ways. Benoit bent over her hand, and Freddy grinned charmingly at her.

"Where have you been hiding yourself, beautiful?" Freddy asked.

Bianca blushed prettily, and Fenris forgot his discomfort at being in a room where magic was being openly displayed and became uncomfortable instead with all the male attention being lavished on his daughter. If he had to guess, he'd say Benoit was about nineteen, Freddy a year or two younger, and Kethali was in the same range. And Bianca was about to turn sixteen, which was marriageable age.

"You're glowering again," Hawke whispered, pulling him away from the young people.

"That is my little girl."

"I don't see any pigtails, my love. You have to let her grow up."

"Aveline has no control over those heedless youngsters."

"Yes, I noticed that, too. But Donnic clearly does. So stop worrying and enjoy yourself. We're home!" Evelyn squeezed his arm and kissed him on the cheek.

"I see some things never change," Varric said. "Leave the two of you alone for half a minute and you're billing and cooing."

"I do not coo." Fenris frowned at the dwarf.

"Right. Tell it to the other pigeons next time you see them."

Leaving the younger generation to carry on what appeared to be a lively conversation, the elders found themselves comfortable seats and were served wine by Donnic's own hands.

"Kirkwall finds it scandalous that we don't keep household servants," he explained, "but the boys need the discipline of cleaning up after themselves—don't say it, Varric," he warned when the dwarf opened his mouth, "and I didn't feel comfortable with the idea of strangers in the house. This is our private space where we can be ourselves, and we don't need servants telling tales about that." Donnic grinned at his wife, and she blushed.

Fenris dragged his attention away from his daughter's face, prettily flushed with the pleasure of all the attention she was getting, the sole dainty female amidst all the gangly boys, and thanked Donnic for the wine. It was an inferior vintage, but better than he'd had in many years, and he sipped with appreciation.

"Now," said Aveline, "why are you back?"

"We ..." Fenris stopped as the words clogged in the back of his throat. It went against his nature to beg for help, even from these dear friends, or to admit that he could not protect his wife and daughter on his own. "The Chantry and the Tevinters have been on our trail for several years."

Aveline frowned. "The Tevinters I believe—I have been asked about your whereabouts by their diplomats several times—but the Chantry seems unlikely."

Varric cleared his throat. "I may have some ideas there."

Hawke looked from one to the other in confusion. "Wait, aren't they still looking to question me?"

"Oh, they'd cheerfully do that if they could," Varric agreed, "but I think their interest is more ... commercial." He carefully avoided looking at Fenris, but the lyrium markings were as present in the room as if they were glowing.

"Why are they interested in that now?" Fenris asked. "They never were before."

"An old friend of yours, a Templar named Keran, has had a few things to say about the remarkable powers you possess," Donnic said. "Eventually, someone in the Chantry leadership started listening."

"And you know those avaricious bastards." Aveline sighed the sigh of someone who had spent twenty years dealing with the Chantry's demands. "They see a resource that's not controlled by Orzammar, and they want to study it, own it, and exploit it."

"Not it," Hawke said. "Him." She reached for Fenris's hand, but he pulled away. Oblivious to her startled look, he balled his hands into fists, looking blindly into the air in front of him.

There was no hiding from the truth any longer—it was he, and he alone, who was being hunted. His presence was a danger to his family.


	6. The Only Way He Knows How

Hawke had argued; Donnic had offered to send an entire regiment of guardsmen, in addition to his tall and overly attentive sons; Varric had looked at him with suspicion. Fenris had ignored it all and insisted on walking Bianca back to the estate for bed. He'd pleaded the license of an overprotective father, which Hawke and Donnic had bought. Varric he wasn't so sure about. The dwarf had always had an uncanny knack of knowing too much about what went on in other people's minds.

In truth, Fenris was relieved that Donnic's boys insisted on walking with them, because their talk (not to mention their constant attempts to outdo one another) distracted Bianca. Benoit was the taller of the two, reserved and mannerly. Freddy played the clown, making Bianca laugh, while his brother acted the gentleman and flattered her. She blushed and giggled and appeared slightly overwhelmed by all the attention. Fenris was appreciative that the mage boy had not accompanied them. He seemed to get along well enough with the other boys, and they with him despite his race and his magic, which said many things to Fenris about Aveline's rule in Kirkwall.

At the door of the estate, both boys hovered, clearly hoping to be asked inside. Bianca was yawning, though, clearly tired by the long day filled with new people and new ... sensations. Fenris didn't want to contemplate his daughter's sensations, but that she was feeling some was clear from her starry eyes and pink cheeks.

"Good night, gentlemen. We appreciate the escort."

"You sure we don't need to come inside and ... check things out?" Freddy's grin was both overly familiar and strangely endearing.

"No, I believe we do not require that."

"Thank you," Bianca said softly.

"Will we see you tomorrow, Miss Hawke?"

"Please, Benoit, remember your mother said we were practically cousins. Call me Bianca."

"Bianca, then." There was a warmth in the young man's face as he bent over her hand. Any romance the moment might have held was broken by Freddy.

"If we're cousins, I sure hope it's the kissing kind." He grinned at Bianca, who chuckled and offered him her cheek.

Fenris cleared his throat. "Good night," he said pointedly.

"Good night, Serah," Benoit said, straightening up. "Come on, Fredo."

"Yep. 'Night all." Freddy waved cheerfully as he accompanied his brother.

"He's nice," Bianca said.

"Which one?"

She blushed. "I'm not sure."

Fenris chuckled, putting an arm around her waist. "Time for bed."

Bianca yawned again. "Can't argue with that." She leaned against his shoulder as they walked inside, and Fenris was overcome by how much he loved this fragile young person. There was nothing he wouldn't do to protect her from harm. He waved off Orana's advance, wanting to keep this moment just to himself as he half-carried his tired daughter up the stairs. How many nights had he done this? He couldn't count them. Only tonight, instead of carrying her into her room, helping her change into nightclothes, and tucking her in, he opened the door for her and lit the taper that sat on her dresser and bid her pleasant dreams. He heard the door close with a pang at the lost time. Where had that little mischievous girl gone?

Left alone in the upper hall, Fenris felt the weight of his solitude on his shoulders. He had all but demanded it, feeling deeply the need to be alone to consider everything he had learned today, but it was strange to be contemplating the problems at hand without Hawke's input. Perhaps he should wait and discuss his concerns with her.

No. She had been injured, she deserved this time with her old friends, she needed the respite from the anxiety she had suffered under. Above all, Hawke needed to feel that they had come home.

Fenris could not. He was no safer in Kirkwall than he had been anywhere else; not even the presence of friends could hide him from the Tevinters and the Chantry combined. Sooner or later someone's vigilance would relax, someone would be offered more than his friendship was worth—not Aveline or Varric or Donnic, but there were others who might be bought.

He found his steps taking him out into the garden, where the herbs perfumed the air. But even the peacefulness of the quiet night and the beauty of Hawke's garden couldn't calm Fenris's troubled thoughts. The idea that it was he, and he alone, being hunted by both groups of their pursuers—hunted, in fact, across all of Thedas—turned his insides to ice and threatened to drag him to a dark place inside himself that he had not dwelled in for a number of years. It was his own fault, he could see that. He should have known that he could never bring anything but pain and fear and unhappiness to those he cared for. But he had done so; he had dared to love, and in so doing had brought peril to everyone around him. There was no longer any way to prevent that ... but perhaps there was a way he could stop it.

The danger to his family came from his presence. If he were to remove himself from their side, they would be safe; especially here in Kirkwall, under the Viscountess's protection, under Varric's watchful eye.

Remove himself from their side? The enormity of what he was considering struck him as hard as any blow could. How could he leave them? They were his life, his soul ... without them, what was he but an empty shell? Bianca's sweet smile, Hawke's embrace ...

In his mind's eye he saw Bianca struggling in the Tevinter slaver's grasp, Hawke sinking to her knees with blood pumping from the wound in her side. They had all been lucky that day. They had survived, their wounds had healed, they had been free to flee again. Would they be so lucky the next time? Or would the blow be fatal? Fenris knew that he could not bear to lose one—or both—of them that way. If sacrificing his life with them was the only way to keep them alive and unharmed, he would have to do so, no matter how painful it might be.

That Hawke would not understand was a given. She had never yet stood ready to fight and not carried the day—she believed deeply that there was no battle the three of them could not win together. She had infinite faith in the abilities of Aveline and Donnic and Varric, and soon Isabela and Bethany, to assist them in any attempt to throw off the burden of their pursuit. But Hawke had never been a slave in Tevinter. She did not know how persistent the magisters could be, how patient and single-minded in getting what they wanted. If they wanted Fenris, they would eventually have him, with no concern for what—or who—might be in the way.

No, he certainly could not tell Hawke what he intended to do. He would have to be most circumspect in his planning and very swift. Because if Varric had an inkling, or Donnic a suspicion, they would surely stop him. If Isabela's ship arrived before he could depart, catching him would be easily accomplished. He would talk to Tomwise first thing in the morning, see if the elf's sailor friend was still around, decide then where he could go to draw attention away from Bianca and Hawke.

"Fenris?"

He turned around, seeing Hawke framed in the faint light that came from the open door behind her. It reminded him so much of another night in this garden, a night when he felt tempted by all the sweet things that he didn't feel he had the right to reach for. He had kissed her for the first time that long-ago night, kissed her violently and without his own volition.

Fenris was barely aware of taking the few steps that carried him to her side, or of pulling her against him and taking her mouth, but he couldn't miss the way she melted into his arms or the sigh she gave as her lips parted for him. Another step or two brought them up against the wall of the house, a moan wrenched from Hawke as he ground himself against her.

That night so many years ago he had been angry, with her and with himself, and his kisses had reflected that anger. Tonight he was desperate to forget what he had decided to do, to pretend that everything was as she imagined it to be, and he could practically taste that desperation as he kissed her. He closed his eyes, his lips moving from her mouth to her jaw and down her neck, nudging her head to the side as he nibbled and sucked at the delicate skin. One hand pressed up between her legs. He appreciated that she had changed into her house clothes before she came out, because now he could feel the heat of her desire through the thin fabric of her smallclothes. He stroked lightly as Hawke moved restlessly against his hand. Fenris drank in the sight of her. Her head was thrown back against the wall, her eyes closed and her beautiful mouth open. He kissed her again just as his fingers slipped inside her smallclothes. Hawke cried out into his mouth at the contact, her hips bucking as he moved first one finger, then two, inside her in a slow, steady rhythm.

She grasped him through his leggings, tearing her mouth away from his and uttering short, wordless, urgent cries that nonetheless told him exactly what she wanted, needed, from him. 

The feel of her hand on him was incredibly arousing, but Fenris did not want his pleasure this way—he wanted to take her upstairs first, to see her spread before him, to hear the entire spectrum of delicious sounds he could wring from her, to rediscover and memorize every taste and scent and sensation. He pressed closer to her, his thumb circling as his fingers moved more swiftly, watching her face in fascination as it reddened with her pleasure.

"Ah ... ah, please ... Fenris!" Evelyn shook against him, her body trembling with the force of her climax. He removed his hand from her body and with the other gently stroked the damp wisps of hair back from her forehead. Her body relaxed against him, her blue eyes opening to look into his as a smile lit up her face.

"Upstairs," he said. "I am not finished with you yet."

"Maker be praised."

Her smile drew an answering one from Fenris. For tonight, he would put aside his worries and his sense of impending doom, and he would wallow in the joy she had brought him for so many years. He had truly been the most fortunate of men.

The morning dawned entirely too soon, finding them tangled in the covers.

Hawke stretched languidly as Fenris climbed out of bed and began to wash up. "We don't need to get up this early, do we? Come back to bed."

He smiled at her over his shoulder. "Tempting."

"Give in to temptation, then." Her eyes twinkled as she lay back, letting the sheet fall off her body, more alluring than any desire demon could ever hope to be.

On any other morning he would have given in and joined her, but there was too much to do today ... and she was too astute for him to risk spending too much time with her. Fenris cleared his throat. "Don't you have plans with Varric today?" It was a shot in the dark, but the Varric they used to know would certainly have some type of scheme on hand to involve Hawke in. Fenris assumed the dwarf couldn't have changed that much.

Sure enough, Hawke grinned. "Varric did mention a trip to Darktown. Something about appeasing the Coterie for a recent infringement on their territory."

"Business as usual, then." He glanced at her anxiously. "You will not be taking Bianca to Darktown, I imagine."

"No, I believe she and Kethali planned to tour the Alienage." As Fenris opened his mouth to object to that plan as well, Hawke frowned. "What do you mean, I won't be taking Bianca to Darktown? Aren't you coming?"

Fenris focused intently on fastening the closures on his breastplate so she couldn't see his face. "I thought I might look up Tomwise, gather as much information as he has."

"Varric can do that."

"He can, but I would not mind the chance to speak with Tomwise."

"Are you sure it's safe for you to walk around Kirkwall by yourself?" Hawke sat up, looking at him with concern.

" _Venhedis_ , woman! I am not helpless. Moreover, what became of your certainty that we would be safe if only we could reach Kirkwall?" He regretted the outburst as soon as he had made it.

Hawke's gaze dropped to the sheets, her cheeks coloring. "I ... just ..." She bit her lip. "It appears that I no longer have any—I am no longer Champion of Kirkwall, and so ..."

Fenris crossed the room, sitting next to her on the bed. He tipped her chin up with one finger. "We knew things would have changed while we were gone."

"I didn't expect to feel so ..." Her hand waved in the air as she searched for the word. With a rueful smile, she finished the sentence. "Obsolete."

"You are not any such thing."

"Maybe not. It was just startling, I suppose. I'll get over it. Just have to find my place in this new Kirkwall, right?"

"Of course." Guilt struck him. Could he leave her like this? His eyes dropped to the healing scar on her side and his resolve strengthened. Better to leave her to find a place in Kirkwall without him than to stay and get her killed. She would see that once he left, he told himself. Surely she would. "You will be all right with Varric today?"

"Yes. You have fun catching up with Tomwise. Tell him I said hello."

Fenris nodded, getting up from the bed. He leaned down to kiss her and then left the room.

Bianca was at breakfast downstairs. Fenris was relieved to see that today she wore sensible leathers rather than the attractive but ridiculous dress Varric had bought her. Fenris was tempted to prolong his conversation with her, aware that his chances to simply chat with his daughter were suddenly limited. But time was passing that he could not afford to waste. With an affectionate touch on her shining black hair, he let himself out of the house, using the trapdoor in the basement that led to Darktown. The abomination's clinic was apparently now a Coterie safe-house, judging by the graffiti on the old wooden walls. Fenris felt the old anger renewed—he should have killed Anders when he'd first met him, rather than leave him alive to blow up the Chantry. Sebastian had been Fenris's friend, and his devotion to the Grand Cleric had kept him in the Chantry that day. Fenris didn't know what counsel the Prince of Starkhaven would have given him on the current situation, but he would have welcomed it. He ducked his head, hurrying past the old clinic and into the depths of Darktown, finding Tomwise's old shanty with little trouble.

The elf seemed surprised and pleased to see Fenris. "What can I do for you today? I don't mix things up myself these days, but if you need something ..."

"It is information I require, and I suspect you have more than enough."

"Come in, then."  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
A few hours later, Fenris found himself exiting Darktown, blinking in the sudden sunlight. His head was swimming from the information he had gleaned from Tomwise; things had changed more in the Imperium than he had given them credit for. A new strategy lay open before him, if he had the courage to take it. A ship lay in the harbor ready to sail for Minrathous at sunrise the following morning, and Tomwise's now-retired sailor friend had agreed to accompany Fenris on the ship.

If Fenris had the determination and the strength to follow through on his intentions, that was. He walked, almost blindly, through the streets of Lowtown, stopping in the doorway of the Hanged Man. So many things had changed for him inside this building. Here he had dared for the first time to trust someone else when he joined Hawke's team. Here he had killed Danarius; here he had admitted that he loved Hawke. Perhaps it would have been better for all of them if he had never stepped inside the Hanged Man in the first place, he thought, pulling the door open.

His eyes rested on Bianca, seated at a table with Kethali, Freddy, and Benoit, all of them laughing. The delight in his daughter's face was enough to stop any further thoughts of regret—whatever better future Hawke might have had if he had never brought himself to be part of her team, he could never wish away his daughter's life. For her, he would go through with his plans. He only wished he could tell her what he intended to do, explain to her why it was necessary. But Bianca could not keep such a secret and was all too much her mother's daughter to be trusted not to do something foolish like follow him.

She looked up and beckoned him over. "Papa, Freddy just told the funniest story about a dwarf and a Qunari and a plate of nug-legs. Would you like to hear it?"

"No, thank you." He smiled at her, lightly touching her hair. "Where is your mother?"

"Upstairs with Uncle Varric."

The four young people at the table looked up at Fenris as he stood there; it was clear that, polite though they may be, they found his presence to be a bit of a wet blanket. With a distrustful glance at the mage boy, he took his leave of them. The laughter resumed as he made his way across the Hanged Man. Part of him mourned the loss of his daughter's childhood—things would never be entirely the same now that she was a young woman. But another part of him recognized with relief that she was beginning to discover her own interests and embarking on her own life. She would not need him much longer.

Hawke and Varric were laughing, as well, like the old friends they were. She was stretched out on the dwarf's bed while he lounged in a comfortable chair near the fire. Fenris stood in the doorway for a few moments, watching the light in her eyes and the easy lines of her body as she lay back. She hadn't seemed this young in a long time. He could not regret having brought her home.

"Come on in, Broody, no need to stand on ceremony," Varric said.

He went in, joining them and making an effort to shake off his gloom. Later there was dinner with Aveline and Donnic and an after-dinner round of Diamondback with the youngsters. They saw Bianca to bed and climbed into bed themselves. Fenris had been solicitous with Hawke's wineglass all night, keeping it filled as much as he could, while merely sipping at his own. As a result, she was hazy with the wine and very sleepy. He curled around her, feeling her body lean into his, listening as her breathing slowed and evened. And then he got out of bed and quietly put his clothing back on. By the light of the fire, he sat down with sheets of parchment and wrote out three notes. He left one for Hawke and stood over her, watching her sleep, pushing back the loose bedcurtain that hung in his way. He had worn that red velvet tie around his wrist until it had frayed and fallen apart; it hadn't mattered then, because he had her. Now he took down the curtain on the other side of the bed, wrapping that tie around his wrist in the old familiar place.

Fenris gave a last glance at her. She would be angry, that much was certain, but he knew this was the right thing to do. She had saved his life, long ago; now he would save hers.

One more stop before he left Kirkwall for good. He opened the door to Bianca's room, listening to her even breathing, tucking the note he had left for her under her crossbow. She would do well, he thought, reaching for an uncharacteristic optimism to help him out the door. Bianca was without his dark past and she lacked Hawke's drive to protect everyone around her. She could move on and lead a happy life, the kind he and Hawke had hoped for but never been able to achieve.

With those thoughts, he closed Bianca's door and went out into the night. At the docks, he gave the last note to a messenger. Then, putting his hood up to cover the markings, he climbed the gangplank to the ship that would take him back to the land of his birth and the magister who waited for him there.


	7. What'll I Do

When Evelyn reached across the bed and felt the other side cold and empty, a sick feeling of foreboding filled her. Foolish, she told herself, blinking blearily as she sat up. He must have awakened earlier than she had and gotten up to check on Bianca.

But as her eyes focused, they fell on the bedcurtain. Last night, that curtain was held back by a red velvet tie; this morning it hung loose, just as the other one had for all these years. And she knew, even before she saw the note on his pillow.

He must have known it wouldn't matter what he wrote, because the note said only, "I am sorry. You and Bianca are safer without me." It didn't surprise Evelyn that there were no expressions of love. He had never been comfortable writing such things down, and he would have felt that he no longer deserved to say them. Over twenty years of their lives spent together left Evelyn in little doubt as to his thoughts.

Crumpling up the note, she flung it across the room, watching it bounce across the carpet. She wanted to be angry with him, to ask herself why he had done this—but instead it was herself she was angry with. How could she not have seen this coming? As soon as she had been wounded back in Rivain, she should have known this would be his response. How could she have allowed herself to be so distracted as to miss this decision? 

Evelyn drew her knees up, resting her forehead on them. She was so tired. Too tired to fight any more. Years of running and hiding, years of makeshift houses and distrusting the neighbors and watching Bianca grow up with no friends and no home and no stability, just like she had, and without even a brother and sister to be close to. And then to come home, to finally be here where they had begun, where their greatest triumphs had occurred, with friends who they could trust with more than their lives ... She should have known it would end in sorrow. Carver killed on the way to Kirkwall; Bethany lost to the Circle; her mother murdered by a madman that Evelyn hadn't taken seriously enough. It should have been clear to her from the beginning that Kirkwall would take its price from her again. Nothing here was ever free.

A keening moan rose from her and she rocked back and forth on the bed, unable to wrest her thoughts away from the darkness that filled her. And for the first time in decades, there was no Fenris at her side, his strong arms and reassuring voice reminding her that she wasn't alone.

She fought back the tears; she hated to cry, always had. It so rarely helped anything. Instead she tried to think. Go to the docks, find out if he had taken a boat. Go to the gates, find out if he had left through them. Why would he? Of course he wouldn't. Her head pounded, her limbs felt leaden. She lacked the strength or the will to get up.

The door opened, and Evelyn's heart pounded. He had reconsidered! But when she raised her eyes they met Bianca's green ones, so like his. As she held out a piece of vellum, Bianca's lips were trembling. "Mama ..."  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Bianca awoke from a warm, hazy dream in which someone had just bent to kiss her ... but she couldn't remember who the someone had been! She lay there trying to recall, which gave way to picturing Benoit and Kethali and Freddy, too, kissing her, and wondering what it would feel like if they did. They had been so attentive in their different ways, and Bianca was enjoying the attention a great deal. She hadn't seen much of her parents in the last couple of days, which was a strange and heady feeling. Is this how normal girls felt, girls who hadn't grown up on the run with only their parents for company? If so, she liked it.

At last, she got out of bed, considering what to do today. She'd been invited on a picnic with Aveline's four sons and Kethali had asked her if she wanted to accompany him on some errands he was running for Varric in Hightown. She was torn—Kethali's nearness made her stomach flutter, but she'd spent much of the previous day with him, and didn't want to give him any ideas that she wasn't ready for him to have. But the picnic was sure to be boisterous, and she was still a little shy around the Hendyr boys.

A piece of vellum tucked under her crossbow caught her eye. Who could that be from? Was it a love note from one of the boys? Her heart beat faster as she picked up the paper ... and it leaped into her throat as she read the first few words: "Bianca—by the time you read this, I will be gone." The handwriting was all too familiar; she knew it as well as she knew her own. Her father had taught her to write, and her handwriting looked much like his.

She tried to focus on the words. What did he mean, he would be gone? Her hands trembled as she first skimmed the page, and then read it over again more carefully. He spoke of the danger she and her mother were in while he remained at their sides; of how much he cared for both of them and how devastated he would be if anything happened to them because of him; and how she needed to be strong for her mother. Strong? For Hawke? When Uncle Varric and Aunt Aveline were around? Her mother would lean on them, or wrest her own strength from deep inside herself. She was hardly likely to need Bianca—not the way both of them needed Bianca's father.

Tears trembled on Bianca's eyelashes. How could he have left like that, so secretly? What would she do without him? They'd been a pair as long as she could remember. His warm green eyes, his small chuckles, his patience and understanding ...

She rushed out of the room, not even bothering to knock on her parents' door. It couldn't be true. He must be there! Holding out the vellum, she said, "Mama ..." But any further words froze on her lips when she saw her mother huddled in the middle of the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, her blue eyes unfocused and glistening with unshed tears. Hawke didn't turn to look at Bianca, and fear gripped Bianca's heart. She was even less prepared to see her confident and in charge mother like this than she was for her father to have left. "Mama!"

Now the blue eyes looked up at her, blinking. A tear spilled down over her mother's cheek, and she didn't move to impatiently wipe it away as she usually did.

Bianca swallowed hard. "He's—really gone?"

Hawke didn't answer.

"What are we going to do?"

Slowly, Hawke shook her head. A sob was wrenched from her throat, and then another, and then a paroxysm of sorrow such as Bianca had never seen her mother express before took her.

Bianca ran across the room, the vellum fluttering forgotten to the floor, and put her arms around Hawke's shoulders. Her own tears welled up and flowed down her face, and they wept together.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Varric leaned back in his brocaded chair, closing his eyes, letting the folded vellum dangle in his fingers. He had to give it to Broody—the elf had made it a good long time before he ran out on Hawke again. But run out he had, as Varric had always thought he would. Once a runner, always a runner.

He sighed heavily, lifting the vellum again and rereading it.

_You care for her more than anyone in the world besides myself. There is no one else I trust to look after them, and so I leave them in your charge. I ask only one thing: do not allow Hawke to come looking for me. I have faith in your ability to prevaricate and obfuscate and deflect suspicion._

Gladly, Varric thought. To keep the best friend he'd ever had in Kirkwall, he would gladly lie through his teeth until he ran out of breath. Whether that would make any difference remained to be seen. The Hawke Varric used to know would have followed Fenris to the ends of Thedas and beyond to find him and bring him back, no matter what got in her way ... but would this Hawke? He had seen the brittleness in her, the sudden uncertainty when her place in Kirkwall turned out not to be what she had expected. And with the Princess to protect, would she dare to launch an expedition into who-knew-where?

He had to admit that the possibility existed that this might well break Hawke, once and for all. She had stood strong in the face of blow after blow, but she'd always had the elf to turn to; from the start, he had been the strong arm she leaned on, the only arm she felt was strong enough to support her. Without him, could she bear up under the loss? Varric wished he knew. He shifted restlessly in the chair, wanting to go to her ... but he couldn't let on that he knew the elf had fled. Instinctively, he knew that it would be much harder to lie to her if she knew he had heard from Broody before he left. There was nothing for it but to sit here and wait, his heart breaking for his best friend, wanting nothing more than to be at her side comforting her, and cursing the renewed cowardice of the only man she had ever loved.  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
 _Ten days later:_

As the boat docked, Fenris wondered what it would feel like to step on Imperium soil again. When he had left here, it was as Danarius's pet. A lifetime ago.

The sailor who had accompanied him made a show of pushing him down the gangplank. "Get moving, slave!" he shouted in heavily Kirkwall-accented Arcanum. Fenris was grateful for the man's help maintaining his subterfuge; alone he would have been easy pickings for the ship's crew to capture him and gain the reward on his head. With the sailor, he had been able to maintain privacy and safety. Now he could approach the magister on his own terms.

He inquired for directions from the first shopkeeper they passed. Previously, his view of Minrathous had been over Danarius's shoulder, three steps behind and two to the side, precisely. It hadn't allowed him much familiarity with the layout of the city.

Fenris followed the hastily sketched map, finally arriving at an imposing house on a shady side street. He turned to look at the sailor. "Thank you for your service." Holding out a pouch, he added, "I believe this is the price we agreed on."

"Always a pleasure doin' business with you."

"Now, you recall what we spoke of?"

"Yeh, yeh, you went over it often enough. Don't tell no one where you've gone."

"Pretend you do not even remember me," Fenris urged. "It is best that way."

"Your coin buys a lot of hush."

"Thank you." Fenris hesitated, looking at the sailor, until the other man got the message. Touching his dirty cap, he turned away.

Why it had been necessary to send the other man away before entering, Fenris wasn't certain, but he knew he needed a moment to collect himself, a private moment, before he could face what he was about to do.

At last, he rang the door, keeping his hood well pulled up over his face and his arms and hands hidden in the cloak.

"Yes?" The finely uniformed slave looked curiously at the hooded figure in front of him. "We do not give alms here, I'm afraid."

"I need to see the magister."

"Without an appointment? I'm sorry, that's not possible."

Now Fenris threw back his hood, watching the slave's eyes widen. "I believe it is. If you will announce me, I am certain I need no appointment."

"Why, yes. Yes, of course." The slave was practically stammering in his haste to get Fenris inside the house. They hurried down a long corridor with dark paintings on the wall, and knocked at a black-painted wood door.

Fenris couldn't help starting when the voice spoke from inside.

"What is it? I am very busy!"

"You will want to see this," the slave said, his voice quavering.

"Then bring it in, and be prepared for a flogging if you have wasted my time."

Once the door was opened Fenris pushed the slave aside, dropping the cloak in the doorway and meeting those familiar green eyes for the first time in twenty years. "Hello, Varania."


	8. Grown-ups Never Understand Anything

"Son of a bitch."

They'd been sitting in Aveline's parlor for half an hour. She'd started to speak at least ten times, but all that came out was the curse.

"That son-of-a-bitch," she said again.

Bianca shifted uncomfortably, wanting her mother to speak up to defend her father's actions, but Hawke just sat there, mutely miserable. Her mother had shrunk since last night. Hawke had always projected height and confidence, but now she looked like any other older woman. Bianca considered saying something to Aveline herself, but the Viscountess was such a formidable figure, pacing restlessly back and forth across the living room, that she was afraid to speak. She wished the boys were here. It would have been nice to have one of Freddy's jokes to lighten the atmosphere, or Benoit's gravity to lean on. But the boys had been sent away as soon as Varric explained the situation, after Aveline's first explosive "Son of a bitch!"

Hawke and Bianca had cried together until Bianca had grown restless, eager to be doing something. It was quickly clear that her mother wasn't going to be accomplishing anything, at least not yet, so Bianca had done the best thing she could think of to do—she'd sent Orana for Uncle Varric. Once the dwarf had shown up, Hawke had perked up some, and he had convinced her to get out of bed and get dressed and come over to Aveline's.

Not that the change in location had done any good at all, as far as Bianca could tell. They were still just sitting, waiting for someone to decide to do something. She looked at Varric, but the dwarf's eyes were far away, his mind clearly elsewhere. She looked at Donnic, but he was nearly as stricken as Hawke.

"I always knew—I should never—" Aveline sputtered. "I should have made you stay. At least he brought you back!" she finished, throwing up her hands. "The son of a bitch."

It was one curse too many. Bianca shot up from her chair. "Don't you talk about my father that way!"

Aveline glared at her, mouth open to argue, then appeared to realize who she was talking to and sighed instead. "You're right, I apologize. I shouldn't have spoken of him that way in front of you." She turned her eyes to Hawke. "What are you going to do?"

Hawke shook her head, her eyes still red-rimmed from crying. "I don't know. I don't understand why he had to run! I thought we were past all that."

Donnic frowned at her. "By your admission, you've run from Antiva to Nevarra to the Anderfels, back to Nevarra, and then to Rivain before you ran back here."

"You're right. I should have seen that," Hawke admitted, her shoulders slumped. "He was running with us, but it was still running."

"I'm the last one to speak up for the elf, Hawke," Varric said, "but maybe he had a point. What if you are safer without him?"

"Who cares about being safe?" Hawke said, with the first spark of animation Bianca had seen in her all day. "What does it matter if I'm safe, if he's not here?" Her voice quavered and she bit down on her upper lip, looking away to hide the naked emotion in her face.

No one spoke for a long moment. At last Bianca folded her arms, glaring at Aveline and then at Varric. "So what are we going to do? How do we find out where he's gone?"

"I've got people hunting for word of him," Varric said.

"How long until they find out?"

"Hard to say. Could be a few days."

"What about Tomwise?" Hawke asked, her face brightening. "Fenris said he was going to talk to Tomwise yesterday; maybe he'll know where Fenris was going, or at least how he planned to leave."

"It must have been by boat," Donnic said with assurance. "He couldn't have gotten far enough on foot; he'd have to have known we could track him and catch up with him."

"Unless he hooked up with one of the caravans," Varric said quickly. "Hard to tell who leaves amidst all those wagons."

Hawke frowned. "I can't see Fenris with a caravan."

"Exactly! He'd have counted on that being the least likely solution."

"I know this won't be a popular opinion, but why look for him at all?" All eyes turned to Aveline. She was looking at Hawke, her green eyes blazing. "He promised never to leave you again; he broke his promise. End of story. You're here with us; we'll take care of you and Bianca. You never need to worry about a thing."

Hawke pressed her lips together to stop them from trembling. "It's not that simple, Aveline."

"It is that simple! He isn't worthy of you. He never was!"

"Aveline." Donnic's voice broke quietly into the Viscountess's shouting. "That's not your decision to make."

"No, it isn't, but it's the right one." Aveline's voice was less strident but just as certain, and Bianca crossed her arms over her stomach, feeling ill. Hawke couldn't possibly be considering this, could she?

"Aveline may have a point."

Bianca turned to stare at Varric, stricken. She'd have thought he would have helped, if anyone would.

He cast Bianca a small, sympathetic smile. "Broody left because he thought he had to. He was convinced he was putting his family in danger by staying in Kirkwall." The dwarf's eyes moved to Hawke, a hint of pleading in them. "Maybe we need to trust that he knew what he was doing."

Bianca waited for her mother to protest, to argue with the logic that seemed to be allowing her beloved Papa to drift inexorably farther and farther away. But Hawke said nothing, staring at Varric with something like despair in her face, as though she agreed with what he had said. "No!" Bianca shouted. "How can it be better for him not to be with us?"

"If it keeps you safe ..." Hawke began, looking up at Bianca with tired eyes. "Maybe he was right, maybe it was the only way."

"I don't want to be safe! I want Papa!" Bianca felt tears stinging her own eyes, and she blinked hard, not wanting to break down and weep like a child in front of all these adults and their maddening, stolid acceptance of the situation. She looked at Donnic. "Tell them this is wrong!"

He shook his head. "I've known Fenris for a long time; he would not have done this lightly. If he thought this was best ... he does know the Tevinter Imperium better than the rest of us. If he feels he must lead them away from Kirkwall to keep the two of you safe—I am sorry, Bianca, but I have to trust him."

"He can't fight the entire Imperium on his own!" Bianca shouted.

The room was silent for a moment as the adults considered that particular ramification of Fenris's decision. Then Hawke sighed. "Your father knew what he was getting himself into. Besides, we can't exactly fight the entire Imperium either."

Her jaw hanging open, Bianca stared at her mother. "So, what? You're just going to sit here like some useless old woman at a spinning wheel, letting him be captured ... or worse? Of all the selfish things! I thought you loved Papa—"

"What do you know?" Hawke was on her feet, her blue eyes snapping. "Tell me, little miss know-it-all, what do you know of pledging your life to someone only to wake one morning and find they're gone? What do you know of losing your whole family, of being driven from home to home by forces you can't control, of finally reaching safety only to have the foundation of your entire life jerked out from under your feet? What do you know of loving and trusting someone only to find that they clearly never trusted you in return?" Her voice never rose, but it commanded the room as though she was shouting. "Talk to me about selfish when you have answers to any of those questions. In the meantime—get out of my sight."

Bianca felt very small, suddenly, shrinking under her mother's anger. Desperately she looked from Hawke's face to Varric's, which was closed and unreadable; to Donnic's, soft with sympathy; to Aveline, whose green eyes were resting on Hawke with affection and concern. Bianca's shoulders slumped. She couldn't fight them all, not if they were all determined just to let this happen. "Fine!"

She whirled around and bolted from the room, the door slamming shut behind her.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
In the silence that followed Bianca's exit, Evelyn walked to the window, staring out over the scrubbed white streets of Hightown. Much as she loved these old friends behind her, she wanted to be alone. Perhaps then, in uninterrupted quiet, she could sort out how she felt and what she wanted to do, and what she could do. She felt lost, here in this unfamiliar room, without the strong arms she had leaned on for so long, without Fenris's steady gaze and unswerving loyalty and constant support. Those had been hers since she'd met him. And she hadn't taken him for granted, not exactly, but she had certainly forgotten what it was like to take the burden entirely on her own shoulders without anyone to help her bear it.

Pressing her lips together, she stared harder, as though she could see across Kirkwall and to wherever he had gone. You would think she'd know. Twenty years with someone, you know where they'd go, don't you? But there were too many possibilities, and every time she instinctively turned to ask him what he thought the part of of her mind that was together enough to think broke again. As long as she didn't think, she didn't have to acknowledge how much she missed him, how frightened she was for him, how deeply betrayed she felt. She didn't know what she would do if she saw him again. Could she ever take him back? Would she have the chance? It was too much to consider, the pain too sharp.

"Hawke." Varric's voice sought to draw her back to reality. "Should we go after her?"

She crossed her arms, holding herself safe in the cocoon of numb misery. "I don't know, Varric. What do you think?"

Evelyn felt rather than heard Aveline's shocked intake of breath. Maybe it was true that she'd always had the answers before, but that was a lifetime ago. She wasn't that person anymore. If anything had been made abundantly clear, it was that she was no longer Champion of Kirkwall. She was no one now, with less reason to be here than she'd had when she first got off the boat from Ferelden. 

"Don't worry about Bianca," Donnic said.

Aveline chuckled. "You're right; it would be a miracle if one of those scamps hadn't been eavesdropping."

Evelyn heard that with relief. Knowing Bianca was safe made it easier to keep hiding from the decisions that needed to be made.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Bianca stood in the hallway trying to master her emotions. Gradually she became aware that she wasn't alone, and she looked up into Freddy's green eyes.

"Have you been here this whole time?"

"Of course." He shrugged. "How else do you learn anything? Benoit says it's unprincipled, but I notice he doesn't mind profiting from the things I learn listening at doors."

"So you know that they're not going after my father."

His frank gaze dropped from hers for the first time in their acquaintance. "Mother isn't all that fond of him, you know," he said to the carpet.

"I got that. But your father doesn't feel that way, does he?"

"No. And if he thinks Mother's wrong, he'll step in eventually. But only as a last resort. He likes to let her make decisions on her own, for the most part." There was a moment's silence before Freddy lifted his head, an unusual seriousness in his face. "What are you going to do?"

"What am I ...?" Bianca felt excitement leap inside her as the import of his question hit home. Who cared if all the grown-ups in the other room had given up on her father? She had friends of her own, for the first time ever—maybe she could do something when the rest of them wouldn't. "Freddy, will you help me?"

"Me? Of course!" He grinned. "Be an interesting change of pace to be useful for once. What do you want me to do?"

"Can you find out where my father went?"

The smile faded from his face, and he reached for her hand, tugging her down the hall and into another room, the still and silent dining room of the apartment. Freddy left the door ajar slightly so they could hear if anyone passed down the hallway. "I'm not the only one in this family who likes to listen at doors. Arik, that brat, likes to do it, too, and then tell on me." He frowned.

Bianca remembered dimly that Arik was the youngest of Freddy's brothers, but the trivial annoyance of a little brother seemed like a small worry in comparison with her larger one. "Can you?" she repeated impatiently.

"Can I what?"

"Find out where my father went."

Freddy shook his head slowly. "No. Certainly not without Varric finding out about it. And his sources are the best in Kirkwall—what he can't find out can be assumed never to have happened."

"Oh." Bianca blinked, feeling the initial wash of excitement drain from her. "Then ..." She tried to think. What could she do?

"But I'm sure Varric will find out something."

"He didn't seem to think he would." Who could help her? And then it came to her. "Freddy, do you know how to get to the docks?"

"Sure. I even know a few shortcuts."

"And do you know someone who can tell you what ships are due in port and when?"

He frowned thoughtfully. "I think so. Why?"

"I thought of someone who might be able to talk some sense into my mother."

"Here's a thought—why not take matters into your own hands?"

"You mean, go after my father?"

Freddy nodded.

Bianca's heart pounded. Could she really? For a moment it seemed possible, that with help she could go and get him, bring him back, convince him that she and Mama needed him more than they needed to be safe.

And then her innate sense of practicality, carefully nurtured by her Papa all her life, reasserted itself, and she shook her head reluctantly. "I'd just make things worse. I don't know where he went, and I don't know enough about how to track people, and ... I'd never find him on my own." She squared her shoulders. "But that's why I need your help, because Aunt Isabela knows all those things. She'll help, I know she will."

"Isabela? The pirate?"

"You know her?"

Freddy's grin nearly split his face in two. "She shows up every couple of years, just long enough to get Mother falling-down-drunk and give us all some really inappropriate presents, and takes off again." He nodded in comprehension. "Of course, Mistress Bethany is your mother's sister, isn't she? I'd forgotten."

"That sounds like Isabela." Bianca giggled. "Papa always used to take my presents away as soon as she'd left."

"Mother does that, too." He peeked out into the hallway. "The coast is clear; shall we?"

"Please."

It was exciting to be following Freddy through the streets of Hightown, dodging through the crowds. At one point he reached for her hand to be sure they weren't separated, and somehow he forgot to let go. It was a warm hand with long, slender fingers, and it felt good wrapped around Bianca's.

He took her on a shortcut behind the busy market to a dingy dark alcove. Bianca hesitated, but Freddy's hand tightened on hers. "It's okay, follow me."

A wooden door slid open and Freddy leaned into the opening, looking down, then led her into the darkness. Bianca gasped as the floor began to move under her feet, the sensation of falling a dizzying one. Freddy pulled her close against him and she could hear his heartbeat as her head pressed into his chest. Her stomach fluttered for an entirely different reason, and she was almost disappointed when the movement of the floor came to a halt and Freddy let go of her to open the door again.

"Be careful here," he said. "This is Darktown. Lots of things happen here that no one knows about. The Guards don't even come down here."

"Then why are we here?"

"It's the fastest shortcut to the docks. Just follow me, and you should be fine." He pulled the hood of his jerkin up to cover his bright red hair, nodding briskly at her before stepping into the dimness outside the lift. It was as much as Bianca could do to keep up with him, and she resolved to ask for lessons in the art of moving as secretly as he did as soon as there was time.

In no time at all she could smell the salty tang of the sea, overlaid by the stench of fish. The ground at her feet was muddy, clinging to her boots. Freddy scrambled up a rickety ladder, pushing open a trap door at the top. He reached down to help her up, and she emerged into the sunlight with relief. How dwarves spent an entire life underground, she would never understand.

"Now what?" Freddy was looking at her, waiting for her decisions.

Bianca felt dizzy for a moment; how could he expect her to know? But she had to, because there was no one else. She squared her shoulders. In a couple more days, she'd be sixteen, and that was old enough to start standing on her own two feet. "We go find the dockmaster—" Dockmaster? Was that right? Freddy was nodding, so it must be. "And we ask—oh, no!"

"What?"

"There's no point in asking the dockmaster—pirates don't exactly announce their arrival in advance."

"She might; it's Kirkwall, after all, a safe harbor for them. Come on, we can at least ask."

"Freddy?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"My pleasure." There was no grin this time; his green eyes held hers seriously. "Bianca, how old are you?"

"I'll be sixteen day after tomorrow."

"Your father left you right before your birthday?" He looked horrified.

"What difference does that make?"

"Well ... it's your birthday." Freddy frowned. "It's special."

"Oh. We've never treated it that way. It's always been just an ordinary day."

"Huh. I wonder why."

"I don't know." She felt tears filling her eyes all over again. "If I ever find Papa, maybe I'll ask him."

Freddy's warm hand squeezed her shoulder, and she looked up into his face. "We'll find him. I promise."

Bianca was filled with warmth; perhaps she had truly made a friend, the kind of friend she could count on the way her mother counted on Varric.


	9. All in the Family

Varania stood frozen, staring at Fenris, for so long that he began to think perhaps he was imagining his own presence here and to wonder if the last few months had all been a dream. Would he wake to find himself lying next to Hawke in the narrow bed in Rivain, surrounded by the stench of dead fish?

And then his sister spoke. "What brings you here? Have you tired of being a human's plaything?"

The venom in her voice snapped him out of any misperception that he was in a dream. He struggled to recall the words he had intended to say to her. "I believe you know better than that. Your men have hunted us from country to country across half of Thedas."

"You ran. What was I to do?"

"Let me alone?"

Varania snorted at that.

Fenris nodded. "No, you could not have done so. I represent money and power, and as an elf and a magister, you need as much of both as you can grasp simply to maintain your position."

"Figured that out all by yourself, did you? I'm surprised; I wouldn't have thought you capable of thinking about someone else's difficulties."

"Difficulties?" Fenris looked around the luxuriously appointed room, raising an eyebrow.

"There it is! Always the eyebrow, so superior to everyone else."

"You have me at a disadvantage—I no longer recall any of your irritating habits." He had expected her to wield the power of their now-unshared memories, and had prepared for the twinges of envy her words brought forth. He smiled. "Although you are doing an excellent job of reminding me."

"Is that what this is about? You want me to return your precious memories?"

"No." Fenris didn't want to introduce the important topic; like any good card player, he wanted to hold his cards close to his chest for as long as he could.

Varania returned his steady gaze. Age had not treated her well, despite her wealth and her magic. Her skin was wrinkled and sagging, her mouth thinned to a cruel line. Her red hair flamed as brightly as it had when he'd seen her last, but it was clear the color was no longer fully natural. It made her look far older than he imagined her naturally greying locks might. Varania's eyes were as green as ever, the same color as his. The same color as Bianca's, Fenris thought with a stab of pain. He had tried to hold thoughts of his daughter away from him, encasing them in a thin, fragile bubble to avoid contemplating what she must be going through in his absence, to avoid missing her smile and her laughter and her sweet trusting love with every breath he took.

The longing that swept him must have showed somehow, despite the firm control he was holding himself in, for Varania nodded knowingly. "You want me to stop chasing you and your little family."

The observation was so obvious that Fenris didn't bother to confirm its accuracy. "May I sit?"

"No." Varania seated herself, though, leaning back in the chair and looking up at him. "What are you offering?"

"Offering?" He intended to delay as long as he could in order to force Varania make the first move. In this situation, the reactor would be in a stronger position than the actor.

"Don't play me for a fool. I didn't ask you to come here—you came on your own. Which means you must have had a solution in mind. I want to hear what it is."

"You have no thoughts of your own?"

They stared into each other's eyes, the battle of wills none the weaker for being silent. Varania smiled. "I have many thoughts. I think you were a fool to come here, for example."

He was not going to be goaded, he reminded himself as he felt anger flash through him. The plan had been to remain calm, to allow Varania's less controlled emotions to drive the interview. What he had not counted on was his sister's knowledge of him.

Her smile stayed steady as she watched him. Fenris felt unpleasantly like a mouse under the cat's unblinking eye.

"What is to stop me," she said at last, her voice very quiet, "from simply capturing you and flaying the precious lyrium from your bones?"

This answer he knew. "Vengeance. My death by torture would not be enough to make up for whatever fate you feel you suffered at my hands."

Varania's eyes flashed, her jaw tensing, and then she relaxed with a visible effort of will. "Maybe all I want is to watch you die."

"Then do so. As you point out, there is nothing to stop you."

"And there goes Leto, the willing sacrifice, yet again. Tell me, Leto," she said, giving a vicious emphasis to the name when she saw the flinch he couldn't hide, "did you ask your wife and child if they wanted your sacrifice? Because you never bothered to ask me, or Mother. You went off so sure of yourself, without waiting to find out the consequences. So sure that you, and you alone, could be our savior and free us from our terrible bonds."

Fenris tried to ignore the venomous words, but the ring of truth lay behind them, and he couldn't help the cold fingers of doubt that closed around his heart.

Varania continued, "But they weren't so terrible. Not compared with the alternative. Oh, they freed us, just as you said. But they took everything from us first. Our master said he had agreed to free us, not to give us half his property, and he stripped even the clothes from our backs. Two naked elven women, turned out onto the street—what do you think happened then, Leto?"

"I am certain I can imagine," he said faintly, closing his eyes in an attempt to stop the pictures his mind was painting.

"No. You cannot." Varania was standing now, her hands clenched into fists. "Would you like to imagine your wife and daughter selling themselves just to obtain their next meal? Because that's what I had to do. I managed to spare Mother, but her health suffered—she was too old to live on the streets. It was almost a relief when she died at last, because then I only had myself to support. You know how I got through my days? By watching every time Danarius went out, watching you." 

"To what purpose? I did not see you, nor would I have known you if I had."

"To remind myself of everything you gained and everything you took from me. There you were, pampered and cared for and well-fed ... and you had no idea who you were, or what you had put Mother and me through. I hated you; I wanted to see you suffer."

"Do you still?"

The question brought Varania up short, pulling her out of her memories and into the present moment. She studied him, thoughtfully. "I don't know. The tables seem turned, don't you think? Now I am the one who is well tended, and you have been living in squalor; I am the one with the fine home and you the one who has lost everyone you ever cared about."

"So we are even?"

She snorted. "Hardly."

Fenris wasn't certain what to do next. Her story had stunned him—he'd had no idea that his family had paid for the markings as much as he had. He felt guilt rising in him. Did he owe his sister some sort of recompense for what she had endured through his actions? Or was his presence here in Minrathous penance enough?

"It isn't, if that's what you're thinking. Abandoning another family who loves you doesn't even begin to make up for what happened to me."

"Then what will?" He felt a certain satisfaction that he had retained the advantage; he was still the one waiting to receive the offer, rather than the one making it. Perhaps he would be able to follow through on his original plan, gain her protection for his family and still have a hope of returning someday to beg Hawke's forgiveness, however fruitless a course that seemed certain to be.

" _Venhedis_!" The curse startled him, coming from his sister's lips. She shook her head. "You don't get it, do you? You came in here, all superior from your years of being the Champion of Kirkwall's pampered pet, and you thought you'd have the upper hand. But you are nothing here!" Varania came around the edge of the desk, but stayed just out of arm's reach of him. "Every magister in the Imperium knows who you are—you're nothing but a slave in Tevinter. In point of fact, you're my slave."

He had expected her to take this position; it didn't worry him. "I am not a slave. I have not been one for many years."

"If I chose to take you prisoner, Leto, possibly you might get away from the house. You have been fighting for a long time, you've learned some tricks, no doubt. But where would you go from there? How would you hide? It would take half an hour, if that, to have all of Minrathous searching for the white-haired elf with the markings ... and you can't hide them. We both know that."

It was possible he had not thought this through as thoroughly as he should have. Fenris held himself in rigid control, but his mind was racing. Where could he go, if she tried to hold onto him? "I am more skilled at the art of concealment than you appear to give me credit for."

"And I know when you're lying." A brief, real smile flashed across her face with some recollection, and Fenris burned to be sharing that memory with her. "I'm the one who taught you how." There was a softness in her eyes as she looked at him now. "Whatever your plan was, Leto, you belong to me, now. It's up to you how onerous your new life becomes."

"No."

Varania chuckled. "You never did know how to lose gracefully."

It was on the tip of his tongue to dispute the word 'lose', but what benefit would arguing with her, angering her, be? He should take advantage of her suddenly softened mood. "My family."

"You mean, the ones you walked out on? That family?"

"Their safety must be assured." 

"What a great deal of power you must think I have. Am I a god, to control the world and ensure that a splinter never sullies their precious skin?"

The mockery was difficult to deal with, but for Evelyn and Bianca, Fenris would have stood much more. "I want your promise that no one from Tevinter will disturb them, as long as I remain in your employ."

"'In my employ'? How quaint. Was this your plan all along, Leto, to sell yourself for their safety?"

It wasn't. In his mind, this had gone better—he had thought he could convince her to take his service for a time, and then set him free to return to Hawke and Bianca. His silence told Varania all she needed to know.

"Leto, Leto, Leto. We will have to teach you that you can't get the best of me. Perhaps you're learning that lesson already."

"My family," he growled, unwilling to let it go until he had her word. Memories or no, something in him knew she wouldn't go back on it.

"Very well. As long as you do exactly what I say, your family can stay unmolested in Kirkwall, alone, for as long as you live." She must have seen the concern at the implied threat pass over his face, because she burst into genuine merry laughter. "Oh, I'm not going to kill you, Leto. You're going to be entirely too entertaining to keep around. For now."

Fenris supposed he would have to accept that. For the women he loved, it was the least he could do.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Varania kept him hopping that first day. She allowed him to keep his familiar armor—until she could come up with something that amused her, no doubt, Fenris thought. But she had his hair shorn. Something about his long hair angered her, and she refused to have him hiding behind it. She wanted to see his face whenever she damned well pleased, she said.

To Fenris, it was an odd relief to have the familiar long locks gone. He felt like a different person with the newly cropped white stubble. Somehow it removed him from the guilt and longing he felt, making Hawke and Bianca seem like a faraway dream.

He was given a room of his own, a tiny smelly brick-lined room off the kitchens. Varania said it was an advance on what she assumed would be good behavior, but Fenris got the message clearly: she didn't trust him near herself or the rest of the household slaves. The cook, a gigantic woman whose arm muscles were even more impressive than Fenris's own after a lifetime of lifting heavy pots and pans and kettles, would be a reasonable deterrence for him should he consider escaping. Varania had promised him that, should he attempt to leave her service, the first thing she would do would be to find Hawke and Bianca and see to it that they suffered for a good long time, and he believed she would do it.

Not that she needed to worry. Fenris was a man of his word. He had not intended to sell himself back into slavery—his idea had been more along the lines of indentured servitude—but that was his own poor planning, and he would suffer the consequences. More to the point, not that he would have mentioned this to Varania, but he did not think he had anywhere left to go. If he knew his Hawke, and he did, he knew enough to be certain that his actions had severed everything that was between them. The one thing that Hawke would never countenance was him running out on his family. Fenris was utterly certain that she would never be able to trust him again, at least, not enough to take him back, although he would have tried, had things gone his way.

The thin pallet in his little cell smelled of old food and mildew, but the blanket was clean. He wrapped it around his shoulders and leaned against the wall, turning the wedding ring around and around on his finger. At last he slid it off entirely, holding the gold band up in the dim light emitted by the smoky lantern he'd been permitted to use. There was little point in his continuing to wear the token—he was no longer her husband. He had given up that privilege when he left.

On a thong around his neck, he had long worn a protective amulet, a symbol of Andraste that had been given to him by Sebastian. He slipped the thong over his head, untying it. The knot was tightened by years of wear; it took him a long time picking at it with his blunt fingernails, but eventually he got it apart. He took Andraste's symbol off and slid the ring on, tying the thong securely once more. The amulet he placed on a narrow shelf above his head, disturbing a thick layer of dust.

And then he resumed his seat in the corner, wishing for a bottle of wine to help wash away the thoughts he didn't deserve to have, the ones he'd held at bay for as long as he could. Whatever she was doing tonight, did she miss him as desperately as he missed her? He fell asleep imagining the blanket was her arms around him.


	10. Sleepwalker Awakes

Her eyes were burning and her limbs were leaden with exhaustion, but Hawke picked up the sword and began moving in the familiar rhythms of her training regimen one more time. It had been a week since Fenris left. A week of ruthlessly driving herself through routine after routine until her muscles were screaming; polishing and cleaning armor and weaponry over and over again; straightening and scrubbing and refurbishing the house relentlessly. She was in the best shape she'd been in for a decade; her equipment was impeccable; the house was so pristine that she and Orana fought to be the first to the smallest piece of paper fluttering to the floor.

All of the restless energy and constant activity had been aimed at masking the fact that the one thing Hawke couldn't seem to manage to do was go to sleep. She tried. She would collapse into a chair or onto the settee, closing her eyes and trying to surrender her body and mind to the Fade, but alone in the quiet of her thoughts she couldn't keep her emotions at bay. If she happened to fall into a doze she would wake with her face wet with tears. As for sleeping in her own room, in her bed? It was impossible to contemplate. He was everywhere there. Not that he wasn't present in the rest of the house, but in the bedroom she couldn't escape him. The empty place on the table where his gauntlets always rested; the glow from the fireplace that used to highlight his markings so excitingly; the curtains fallen loose around the bed with no ties on them; the pillow that carried his distinctive scent of leather and lyrium.

If there had been just one emotion, if she could have managed to be just hurt, or angry, or lonely, it would have been one thing. But she was all those things, as well as worried about his well-being and outraged that he had left Bianca when their daughter needed both of them. No sooner would she talk herself out of one feeling than another would bubble to the surface.

So it was easier to keep moving. She didn't speak about him; Varric knew better than to bring up the topic, but Aveline kept wanting to go over all the reasons Fenris was a lying, betraying bastard who should be flogged, and Bianca insisted on talking about how they were going to bring her Papa back. Hawke ignored them both, relentlessly focusing on her life and Bianca's in Kirkwall, and what they were going to do there next.

If it was possible for matters to be worse, the distance that already lay between Hawke and her daughter was widening. Fenris and Bianca had always had a bond. They'd always understood each other, gotten along, and laughed at each other's jokes. Entranced by the two of them, Hawke had never entirely minded. There was something in her that required time apart, and the closeness between her husband and daughter had allowed her to keep that freedom while still treasuring her family life. But at what cost? she wondered now. Because she didn't know how to talk to her daughter. Bianca was so angry that they hadn't all just dropped everything to find out where Fenris had gone, and clearly she blamed Hawke more than anyone.

Too tired to continue her exercises, Hawke let the sword fall. Lifting it to hang it back up over the door was almost too much for her leaden arms. She was sweaty and overheated, her eyes drooping, as she dragged herself back into the house. She was glad to close the door—the garden held almost as many memories as the bedroom, and she kept casting sideways glances at the wall, half-expecting him to scale it as he had done so many times before and come across the garden to apologize. Or to argue. Or to make love.

She didn't know what her response would be if he came back, Hawke thought, settling down in the chair with a soft blanket over her. She wanted just to hold him and make sure he was in one piece, then she wanted to hit him for leaving, then she wanted to rip his gauntlets and her clothes off and feel those gentle hands on her again.

"Mother?"

It was a relief to hear Bianca's voice on the stairs, dragging her out of whichever emotion was threatening to swamp her. Hawke sat up, pushing off the blankets.

"Couldn't you sleep again?" There was concern in Bianca's green eyes, but there was judgment there, too, in the set of her little mouth and the crossed arms.

"I'll be fine. It's just going to take some time." She took in her daughter's leather-clad form. "Where are you off to this morning?" Hawke hadn't even noticed the approaching dawn, but the windows told the tale of the long night's end now that she looked at them.

"I'm just running down to the docks." There was a wealth of unspoken commentary in the simple statement. Bianca clung to the idea that somehow Isabela would be able to do what Varric couldn't seem to, and would know where Fenris had gone. At least, that's what Hawke assumed Bianca thought. They hadn't discussed it, or anything, really.

They had both lost Fenris. For his sake and for each other's, they could not afford to lose one another. "Want some company?"

It was on the tip of Bianca's tongue to say no; Hawke could read her daughter's face as clearly as if Bianca had spoken the word. "Are you sure?" the girl said instead. Maybe she was thinking along the same lines Hawke was.

"I might as well get out of the house a little, see if the rest of Kirkwall is still standing."

The doorbell rang through the house. Both women jumped, carefully not looking at one another, not wanting the other to see how quickly hope had risen in their hearts and how thoroughly it was dashed when Orana let Varric and Kethali into the room.

"Hawke! You look ... fit," Varric said. Even he couldn't mask his concern for her—the sleepless nights must show in her face, she thought.

"Mistress Bianca," Kethali said, bowing over her hand. Bianca turned a becoming shade of pink under his gaze, and Hawke wondered if this was where her affections would flow, or if one of Aveline's boys would be the one to win the girl's heart. Couldn't fault her for falling for a handsome elf, Hawke thought. Imagining what Fenris might have said twenty years ago if someone told him his daughter might marry Merrill's son made her laugh out loud.

Varric cocked an eyebrow at her, and Hawke shook her head. "Wouldn't translate." Still, it was nice to be amused for a change. "Bianca and I were just about to head for the docks."

The dwarf smiled. "It'll be nice to see Rivaini again, almost li—" He broke off, and Hawke was glad. If he'd actually said anything about it being like old times, she might have had to hit him. "And Sunshine, too, of course. I like those two together—ever since they took up, that pirate's kept her lecherous eyes off Bianca." He patted the crossbow. "Bianca Senior, that is."

Bianca Junior smiled at him. It hadn't taken long for her lifelong idolization of the imagined Varric to transfer to the real one.

"Mistress Bethany is a very special soul," Kethali said. "She has taught me much."

Hawke looked at him in surprise, but it made sense, she realized. "Of course, they must dock in Denerim fairly regularly. And it's only natural that they visit Merrill; Isabela always had a soft spot for her. Oh, not like that," she added hastily, seeing Kethali's face pale. "Strictly platonic, or as platonic as Isabela ever gets."

"Ah." The elf looked relieved.

"Shall we?" Hawke asked. The others fell into step, Varric next to her, and Kethali and Bianca walking behind her. She paused for a moment on the doorstep, taking a deep breath of the clean air of Hightown, preparing herself for what she would encounter as she walked the streets of the city. She was not the Champion of Kirkwall any longer, Hawke reminded herself, and she should not expect to be treated that way. Twenty years had passed, or nearly that, since she'd left here, and she should not expect to see familiar faces. Most importantly, Fenris was gone, and he wasn't coming back, and she should not let her heartrate rise every time she saw a white-haired elf.

"You all right, Hawke?"

"I'll be fine, Varric. It just ... all takes some getting used to."

He was silent, and they kept moving, out of the courtyard and into the streets.

"Varric?"

"Hawke."

"Have you ... heard anything?" It was the first she had asked; mostly she hadn't wanted to think. But it had been such a long time, surely Varric's contacts knew something.

He cleared his throat. "Not a thing." He pulled Bianca over his shoulder. "Hm, I think Bianca's gotten scratched."

"Varric Tethras." She stopped walking and stared down at him.

"Hm?"

The little sound was vintage Varric, innocent as the day he was born ... but this was Varric, and she knew he'd hardly been innocent even as a babe. "You know something you're not telling me."

Varric glanced quickly over his shoulder, and Hawke followed suit. Bianca and Kethali were laughing together, walking companionably shoulder to shoulder. Hawke had to look quickly away because the memory of walking with someone that way, being that natural, hit her like a blow to the stomach, making her eyes water.

"You sure you want to hear this?" Varric asked quietly.

"Yes. Whatever you know, I need to hear it. Right now, Varric," she added when he hesitated.

"I haven't heard anything ... because I haven't looked." At Hawke's sharp intake of breath, Varric looked up, his expression serious as she had rarely seen it. "He asked me to, Hawke. He sent me a note telling me that he was leaving for your safety and asking me to look after you, and most of all, to keep you from coming after him."

"And you just ... did it? I didn't think you liked Fenris that much," she said, whispering around the iron band that was squeezing her chest. It had never occurred to her that Varric would lie to her about something like this, or that Fenris would ask him to. They felt suddenly like conspirators, and she like their pitiable dupe.

Varric shrugged, but his face said he knew what she felt. "I thought maybe he had a point. I don't think he should have left you the first time, but he'd done it once, I always thought it was only a matter of time." She must have made some small sound, because he glanced up at her out of the corner of his eye. "Sorry, Hawke."

"Maybe you were right, Varric." She snorted humorlessly. "No maybe about it, is there? You were right. I was the fool to trust him."

"Once you start running, it's hard to stop. Or so I understand."

"If you agreed with him, why are you telling me this now?"

"Because the part of me that thinks he was right keeps arguing with the part of me that thinks you deserved a choice in the matter."

His obvious unhappiness eased the bitterness within her, and she smiled fondly down at him in a step toward forgiveness. "What made you decide to go with the second part?"

"I figured once I told you, it would be too late for the part that agreed with Broody to do anything about it, and it might just shut up."

"Let me know how that works out for you."

He chuckled, and they made their way slowly through the crowds on the Lowtown stairs. Hawke was back to feeling the nauseating mix of emotions rolling around in her stomach. So sweet, but so incredibly arrogant, too, that he would write to Varric and tell Varric to "care for" her. Of course, the juxtaposition of sweetness and arrogance had always been what she loved about Fenris; could she love it any less when it was aimed at what he saw as her well-being? 

They arrived on the docks without further incident, and Varric excused himself to check with the dockmaster's assistant. He came back beaming. "The Temptress of the Seas is due into port sometime today, best they can reckon."

Hawke glanced up at the blue sky. It was better to be here than at home, she thought. "I think I'll wait." Her first instinct was to turn to Varric ... but something led her eyes in another direction. "Bianca, what do you think? Do we—do you have anything better to do?" She saw her daughter's cheeks pinken with surprise and then pleasure at being the first to be consulted.

"No, Mother, not really. I think we should stay here and greet them as soon as they step foot on shore!"

"If you will stay, Mistress Bianca, so will I," Kethali said.

Varric grinned. "I already took the liberty of ordering a little lunch from one of the taverns. If the ladies Hawke would accompany me?" He bowed low, and Hawke smiled down at him. How she had missed him.

She and Bianca took Varric's arm and he led them to a small, obviously hastily created, seating area with a fine view of the dock, and protected by a stack of sandbags from some of the worst of the oily, fishy stench that was so much a part of the docks.

They ate the meal, talking casually, mostly about Kethali's upbringing in Ferelden and about Merrill. Varric seemed comfortable enough with Merrill's marriage and her life in the alienage, Hawke noted. If he felt any twinges of loss, or wished he hadn't let her go, they were buried deep inside him, like everything else in his past. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth at the thought that maybe her first move now should be to find Varric some happiness.

"Good to see that smile again," Varric commented quietly. "Or is it? Seems to me I recall that smile leading us into some less-than-pleasant situations. Maybe I'm filled with foreboding."

"Oh, you should be," she assured him. "I'm thinking about finding you a woman."

"Hawke, you of all people should know there's only room for one woman in my life." He patted Bianca fondly. The crossbow still shone as if she was brand-new, testament to years of Varric's loving tending.

"Hm. We'll have to see about that."

"As I live and breathe," Varric said, standing up and shading his eyes. "I believe that's the Temptress right now."

Hawke stood up, too. She couldn't stop the smile that spread across her face at the thought of seeing her sister and Isabela again. The beautiful ship came slowly into the harbor, heading for the first dock in line. It was impeccably maintained, highly polished, the crisp white sails flapping in the breeze.

"Business must be slow," Varric observed. "Usually she's limping in here looking like the Hanged Man on a Monday morning."

"Maybe she just wanted to look her best for us," Hawke said.

She admired the figurehead, a woman in a seductive pose and not much clothing who looked remarkably like Isabela. Hawke happened to know that the model for the figurehead had been Isabela's grandmother, a spirited old lady who was still alive somewhere in Rivain, telling fortunes and scaring the populace. To hear Isabela tell it, her grandmother had been the original scourge of the seas, and had taught Isabela everything she knew.

The ship docked expertly. By the time it was moored securely and the gangplank was being lowered, Hawke and her companions were waiting on the jetty.

"Sister!" The shriek turned heads all over the dock, but Bethany ignored them all. Clad in billowing black shirt and ragged cut-off pants, she ran barefoot down the gangplank and threw herself at Hawke. Isabela wasn't far behind, but Hawke paid no attention to the banter between Varric and the pirate, focused instead on her sister's long-familiar embrace. She wanted to give way, sure of Bethany's love and support, but this was hardly the place. Hawke tightened her jaw and broke the embrace, stepping back to look at her sister.

Bethany's black hair was short-cropped, her fair Fereldan skin tanned over long years on the water to a glowing golden color that set off her amber eyes. The pirate life clearly suited her, and she and Isabela were as happy as ever, to judge from the warm looks they cast each other.

As soon as Hawke's arms were free, Isabela launched herself at them. Hawke had to laugh at the pirate's exuberance. "I missed you, too," she said, as soon as Isabela's embrace eased enough that she can breathe.

"'Bout time we were all together again," Isabela said. She glanced over Hawke's shoulder at the others. "But where's the broody guy? I was hoping for a decent game of Wicked Grace."

Bianca, nestled in her Aunt Bethany's arms, burst into tears. She pressed her face against Bethany's shoulder, much the way Hawke herself had wanted to do. Staring at her daughter, Hawke wasn't sure if she envied the girl her easy tears, or was disappointed in her lack of control.

Isabela leaned back far enough to be able to look Hawke in the face. "Hawke?" When Hawke couldn't bring herself to answer, afraid of what would come out if she opened her mouth, Isabela looked down at Varric.

The dwarf shook his head. "Broody's gone."


	11. The Hawke She Used to Be

"So let me get this straight: that screwed-up elf gets it in his head that taking off is the best thing he can do for his family, so he disappears. And when you find out the love of your life has gone, you don't pull up your big girl smalls and go after him, you sit there and feel sorry for yourself?" Isabela shouted.

"Something like that," Hawke admitted.

Bianca sniffled against Bethany's shoulder, clinging more closely to her aunt. It had taken the entire walk from the docks to the estate to catch Isabela up on the current situation and for her to stop spluttering long enough to speak clearly. She had worked herself into a fine temper now, though. Bethany had yet to comment. She'd been watching everyone quietly, stroking Bianca's hair as the girl clung to her.

"That isn't the Hawke I knew," Isabela said, shaking her head in disappointment.

"Maybe I'm not the Hawke you knew. Have you considered that?" Evelyn stood up, turning her back on the room and walking to the window.

"What do you want her to do, just drop her whole life and go running after him, begging him to come home?" Bethany asked, steel underneath her soft voice. "My sister has more pride than that."

"Pride be damned!" Isabela shouted over the soft noise of protest Bianca had made at her aunt's words. "Pride doesn't keep the bed hot."

"Izzy!" Bethany said, scandalized. Evelyn didn't need to turn around to know her sister had glanced pointedly at Bianca before looking back at her lover.

"She'll know all about that soon enough, if she doesn't already. Eh, sugarplum?"

Bianca was silent, and Hawke felt a pang. Her daughter was growing up, on the brink of learning all about men and women. What sort of example was Hawke setting? No doubt a poor one. Fenris would have come after her, had she been foolish enough to do what he had done. There was no question about that. But she would never have left him of her own volition, she reminded herself fiercely. Why should she go after him when he'd made his choice willingly?

Evelyn became aware of the harsh whispers behind her and turned to see Bethany and Isabela facing each other down.

"Why should my sister go through any more for him? Hasn't she suffered enough?"

"Oh, yes, because spending your life with the person you love is suffering. You've never liked him!"

Bethany didn't bother to deny it. "He's never given me any reason to trust him."

"He's had her back for twenty years!"

"Which apparently didn't mean much, since he took off running at the first provocation," Bethany snapped. She and Isabela were glaring at each other.

Evelyn looked at them, standing there in mid-argument, and all the emotions of the past week solidified inside her. Without Fenris, who was there who would argue with her? Who would face her down, toe-to-toe, forcing her to consider other points of view? Varric and Aveline were too protective—they would assert their positions, but they did it softly, and with care. Bianca would soon be determined to be free, to stand on her own—she would want to charge forward, whatever the situation, and would view Evelyn's arguments as standing in her way. Fenris had been Evelyn's sparring partner in the ring and out, and she missed that particular combination of support and challenge. The idea that she might never have it again was untenable. So much so that she wondered how she had ever brought herself to consider such a thing.

"He had his reasons, Bethany," she said evenly, bringing the argument to a halt. There must have been something new in her voice, because all the heads in the room turned immediately toward her. Bianca drew her sleeve across her eyes to dry them, Bethany looked worried, and Isabela smiled.

"That's my girl. You're going after him, aren't you, Hawke?"

Evelyn nodded. "I have to. I was a fool to let it go this long."

"How can you have so little pride? He doesn't deserve you, sister. He never has. Anyone who could leave you twice—"

"I don't care about that, Bethany. I don't care about my pride." Having made the decision made Hawke feel more like herself. She straightened her spine. "Without him ... what's the point?" She gestured around at the room. "None of this matters. A hut made of sticks on the plains of the Anderfels with him is better than anywhere else without him. I only wish I had known that before I made him bring me here. I got so ... lost in the running and the memories of what it was like for our family when we were little that I never thought of the consequences, not until it was too late."

Isabela, never comfortable with emotional scenes, cleared her throat. "The Temptress is yours, whenever you need her."

"But we don't even know where he went!" Bianca stood up, looking from Isabela to her mother and back with desperate eyes. "We could chase him all over Thedas and never find him!"

Hawke crossed the room to her daughter and put her arm around the girl's shoulders. "Have a little faith. Remember, Varric admitted he never even looked for Papa, because Papa asked him not to. Between Varric and Isabela and me, we'll figure it out."

"You know where I'd look, sweet thing. Once he was in a self-sacrificing mood ..." Isabela said.

"Agreed. We need to find out who's in power in Tevinter."

"You think he turned himself in?"

"Think about it," Isabela said. "It's just the kind of dramatic gesture lanky and smouldering would think of, it's one place he'd think Hawke here would hesitate to follow him into, and it's familiar territory. Where else would he go?"

Hawke nodded slowly. "I hadn't thought of it that way. I hadn't really thought of anything at all, except—the obvious."

"He's always thrown you off your game, sister," Bethany said, still not ready to give up her objections. "You never did think as clearly when it came to him." Or you wouldn't be in this mess, was the message left unsaid that nevertheless hung in the air.

"What are we waiting for?" Bianca asked, squirming out from under Hawke's arm. "Let's hurry, please!"

"Patience, dumpling," Isabela said. "He's got this much of a head start on us, we won't be able to save him from himself just yet. Besides, good planning equals success, or some such platitude."

"Where'd you get that one?" Hawke asked.

"Little bird I know, likes to give the men pep talks."

Bethany laughed. "Glad to see someone was listening."

"To you, sugarplum? Always." The two women exchanged a look that made Hawke happy for them and sorrowful for herself. Clearly their disagreement over Fenris was forgotten.

She let them have their moment, then cleared her throat. "We should go see the others, figure out who we're taking and start to make a plan."

"I'm going," Bianca announced.

Hawke glanced sharply at her daughter, then away. This was not the time for that argument. "We'll see."

"I am, Mother!"

Before Hawke could rise to the sharp tone, another voice cut in from behind them. "I'm going with you, as well, Mistress."

She turned to see Orana standing there, looking determined. "Orana, that's lovely, but—"

"None of you knows Tevinter the way I do. And none of you can blend in there the way I can. You need me, Mistress, and I am going to help you. I owe it to you."

"You don't owe me anything—you never did, and even if you had, that debt would have been made up for long ago," Hawke protested, but Orana merely folded her arms and stayed silent.

"She's got you there, Hawke," Isabela said.

She did. "Thank you, Orana." Hawke felt the words were inadequate, but she didn't know how to properly express how she felt. Kirkwall had taken a great many people from her ... but it had replaced that lost family with another one, and the sacrifices they were willing to make for her made Hawke feel incredibly humbled. "We—" She took a deep breath, reaching inside herself for a plan. Once she had known how to make decisions and had made them with firmness and alacrity. That person was there inside her still, but it had been so long since she had been in touch with that firmness and confidence. Exhaling, she took herself in hand, shutting down the questions and doubts that rose in her mind. "We need to gather the others, to get some confirmation that Fenris actually went to Tevinter, and to make a plan for when to set sail." She glanced at Bethany. "Would you stay here with Bianca?"

"Of course, sis—"

"No, Mother! I am going. You can't make me sit here and twiddle my thumbs and wait while the rest of you are out there looking for Papa." Bianca's green eyes flashed. She looked so much like her father, Hawke thought. "I have skills; I can help."

Hawke exchanged concerned glances with the other women. At last, Isabela shrugged. "I can train her on the voyage, Hawke, and if she's not ready, we can leave her on the ship."

"I could watch her just as easily on the _Temptress_." Bethany smiled, her eyes twinkling as she looked at Bianca. "More easily, maybe—there are a lot fewer ways to sneak off a ship."

Bianca blushed, but didn't deny the implication.

"Would you accept that, then?" Hawke asked her daughter. "We bring you along, but if Isabela feels you'd be a liability on the mission, you stay on the ship? It doesn't help anyone if we find him and then a rescue attempt falls apart because we couldn't count on you to do your job."

"But I—" Bianca stopped herself in mid-protest, standing a bit straighter. She nodded briskly. "I understand. You're right, Mother."

"Will wonders never cease," Hawke said.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
"Hawke, I can't help but think this may be a bad idea," Varric said, shaking his head.

"You, too? What's wrong with you people? I thought better of you, Varric." Isabela frowned at him.

"The man asked me to watch out for his family. I hardly think letting Hawke waltz into the middle of the Imperium, knock on a few magisters' doors, and ask if they've seen her escaped slave lyrium-enriched husband would be considered 'watching out', Rivaini."

"Not to mention that he's the one who made the decision," Aveline put in. "He should be the one to come home, and beg Hawke's forgiveness on bended knee."

"Oh, yes, because the Tevinters will be so anxious to let him go."

"Not my problem." Aveline put her hands on her hips. "And I didn't ask you to come into my city and start stirring up trouble."

Isabela grinned at her. "I always do—I don't know why you don't ask. You know you love it."

"Like I love the plague," Aveline said, sighing, but there was a twinkle in her eye, and she slung an arm around Isabela's shoulders.

"So, we're decided, then? We're going to Tevinter?" Bethany looked across at her sister, her eyes dark with concern.

Hawke knew she was being too quiet, letting them all wrangle about each decision. She couldn't help it; now that she was sure she knew what she wanted to do, she wanted just to do it—to go down to the docks, get on the ship, sail to Tevinter, and ... find him. Somehow. Something in her was sure that once she set foot in the Imperium she would feel Fenris, but she'd been around enough to know she couldn't count on such a romantic notion. So she let the others talk, sifting their thoughts while turning her own over in her mind. It wasn't the way she used to do things, but the stakes were higher now, and they were all a lot older. They'd only be getting one shot at this, she suspected, and she couldn't afford to make a mistake.

Varric appeared at her elbow, looking up at her. "Hawke?"

She put her hand on his shoulder, squeezing, and smiled at him. "We're going to Tevinter. But not immediately."

"Mother!"

"Let me finish, Bianca. Information is key, and we need more of it. You and I are going to go see Tomwise and find out what he and Fenris talked about. Isabela and Bethany are going to get passenger lists from ships that left here the day he did."

"Ships bound for Tevinter?" Aveline asked.

"No, I think all of them. He might have taken a ship to somewhere else, thinking to throw us off the trail if we went looking."

"Good thinking," Isabela said.

Hawke nodded in acknowledgement. "Aveline and Varric, check with the gate guards and see if any of them remember Fenris."

"Serah Hawke, what can we do?" Freddy had been quiet through all of the discussion, sitting on the arm of the chair his mother had been reclining in until she got angry with Isabela. His question startled Hawke, who had almost forgotten he was there. Kethali, as well, who stood next to Freddy, his eyes on her.

"Thank you, boys. Er, Freddy, I understand you know a few things about Darktown." Hawke tried to phrase it delicately to avoid getting the boy in trouble with Aveline, if she didn't already know.

Clearly she shouldn't have worried. Freddy grinned, and his mother shook her head, frowning good-naturedly. "I know a few people," he said. "You want me to ask around and see if anyone saw him?"

"I do. Kethali, you can go with him, and maybe take a sweep through the Alienage? Fenris was never much for the company of other elves, but to throw off the scent, maybe ..."

"Of course. My pleasure, Serah."

She'd have to do something about their formality at some point. But for now she'd let it stand.

"You don't leave me much to do, Hawke."

"On the contrary." She smiled at Donnic, but it faded quickly. "There's one possibility we haven't discussed, but we can't just assume it's not possible, no matter how unlikely it is ... and we need our calmest, most diplomatic people on it. I think that's you and Benoit."

Donnic swallowed visibly. "You want me to go to the Gallows and make sure the Templars don't have him."

The silence in the room full of normally garrulous people spoke volumes. Hawke met Bianca's stricken eyes. They hadn't talked about this idea, because Hawke hadn't wanted to give it any credence—but she couldn't afford to ignore it completely.

"Yes," she said in response to Donnic's question. "Will you do it? Can you?"

"They'll answer me," he responded grimly. "I'll make sure that they do." Benoit, standing behind his father's chair, nodded in agreement.

Isabela broke the silence. "So the only thing left, sweet thing, is to decide who's going to Tevinter, once we get started."

"Hawke, I—" Aveline broke off what she was going to say, looking uncomfortable.

Hawke smiled at her forgivingly. "I know, you can't leave. Neither can Donnic. So I'll go with Bethany and Isabela and Orana and Bianca and ... Varric?" She looked imploringly at her friend. Without Fenris, she needed him at her side more than ever.

"You even need to ask?"

"You hate leaving Kirkwall."

"Well, you know what they say, you have to leave a place in order to truly appreciate it."

"Hawke, if you can get him out of the Hanged Man, don't let him go back," Donnic said.

"Right. Because if Varric doesn't live there, I can close it down for health codes violations," Aveline added, her eyes gleaming. "I've been wanting to do that for twenty years."

"Aveline, if I get back and every ale stain and cockroach aren't where I left them, I'm rereleasing 'Hard in Hightown', and I'm changing the characters' names back to the originals."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

Dwarf and Viscountess stared each other down, before Aveline threw up her hands. "Fine! I'll leave it be. Can I at least have it fumigated?"

"Aveline ..."

"Okay, okay, okay. You win."

"Thought you might see it my way." He grinned smugly up at Hawke, who shook her head.

There was a soft noise as Kethali cleared his throat. "Serah, my mother sent me to help you. I'm sure this is the kind of situation in which she thought you might find my talents useful. I would be honored if you would allow me to come along."

"He's a pretty talker, Hawke, but a good mage, too," Varric said. "I'd give him a chance."

Hawke nodded. "Kethali, well said. Welcome aboard." Her eyes fell on Freddy's crestfallen face, and she considered the situation. Thrown together in a crisis, two young people? She was almost certainly sealing Bianca's fate without ever giving the girl the chance to choose. "If your parents can spare you, Freddy, I think we could use you, too."

"Serah, you mean it?" He was on his feet, his face lighting up.

Donnic and Aveline exchanged a few meaningful glances, and at last Aveline grinned. "If you think my scapegrace here can help you, it'll be the best news Kirkwall's had in almost seventeen years."

"Thank you!" Freddy put his arms around his mother's neck, and Aveline returned the embrace, fiercely.

"You take good care of Hawke, and make sure she comes back to Kirkwall. The place hasn't been the same without her."

"All right, then," Hawke said. "We all have our assignments ... let's get this show on the road."


	12. A Slave's Life

"I'm sorry, M-Magister. I meant to inform you when the shipment came in, but ..." The young merchant squirmed miserably in his seat. The fool, Fenris thought dispassionately. It was patently obvious that he had intended to deceive Varania. Stupid not to have expected her to find out and come up with a believable lie. Or any lie.

"But what?" Varania inquired softly. Her green eyes glittered, belying the gentle tone.

"I—lost track of time?" The beads of sweat across the young man's face—he was in his late twenties, if that, Fenris judged, and clearly not experienced enough to have entered into a contract with a magister, which was no doubt why Varania had chosen to do business with him. The lameness of the response and the utter misery on his face said the merchant knew it was too late for excuses.

"Oh, dear. Leto, what shall we do with him?"

If Varania expected him to enter into this farce, she was due to be sorely disappointed. He raised an eyebrow, indicating as much. His sister's lips thinned; he had displeased her, and would no doubt suffer for it, but he wasn't going to stand here and play cat and mouse with this young man. The merchant's fate was sealed, anyway.

"Magister, I am so sorry! Please, I'll get another shipment, a bigger shipment! I'll ... get this one back. I'll do anything! Please, Magister!"

Danarius would have fed off this pleading, his cat-with-the-canary smile stretching wider and wider as he determined how far he could play the young man and what Danarius could possibly gain from all the extravagant promises. Varania, on the other hand, found it an insult to her intelligence that she should believe a small treachery would not inevitably be followed by a larger one.

"You have no ability to do any such thing. You could not even accomplish the simple task I set to test you with—you are more useless than the vermin that infest your rickety little warehouse." She stood up. "Leto, dispatch him. Immediately."

These were the moments that disturbed Fenris the most when he returned at night to his little room off the kitchen; the moments when he lit the lyrium embedded in his skin and thrust his glowing hand into a chest cavity on his sister's orders. What bothered him was not the killing itself ... it was that the killing didn't bother him. It was entirely too easy to take on the attitude of a slave along with the collar, to take refuge in the mindlessness and the lack of guilt that came with simply following the orders you must follow. He felt nothing as he twisted his hand within the young merchant's insides, doing a thorough job of it so that Varania could be certain her vengeance had been fully taken. Later, he would despise himself—every killing was one step further removed from being the man Hawke had loved and the father Bianca had trusted.

"Come along, Leto."

He followed, three steps back and two to the left, just as Danarius had preferred. Sometimes it seemed his entire life in Kirkwall and beyond had been a mere dream, because nothing seemed to have changed other than the identity of his master. He no longer even reacted to the name. It was as much his—and as little—as Fenris had been, and he was both and neither of those men.

The streets of Minrathous had certainly changed since Danarius's day. A person such as Fenris who had been away and returned could see that the Imperium's power was waning. Where once almost every citizen had owned at least one slave, and the slaves themselves had come from every country in Thedas, now it was clear that only the rich could afford to keep any slaves at all, and what slaves there were had been homegrown, the sons and daughters of other slaves. The slave population had always been predominantly elves, but now the entire population appeared to be heavily elven. And those of the population who were obviously not native Tevinters were just as obviously mages, come to the Imperium for freedom.

They made Fenris think of Anders, dead all those years ago. The mage had harped on freedom until his dying breath; Fenris couldn't help but wonder what he would think of the 'freedom' he had killed so many people to secure. The destruction of the Chantry in Kirkwall had fired up the mages to free themselves from the Circles, which in turn had caused the Templars to militarize even more than they already were and to lead armies to quash the mages' uprisings. Battles had been fought, Circles invaded, Chantries burned to the ground. And for very little gain on either side. The Templars could no longer control the vast majority of mages—those few still in the Circles were the tame ones who wanted merely to study and be left alone. The mages who were free continued to be distrusted on every side. Anyone suspected of harboring a mage was punished, apostates caught were immediately executed or Tranquilized. How many managed to live in hiding, Fenris didn't know.

It was different in each country, of course. Ferelden and Kirkwall were valiant in protecting their mages and in defying the Chantry, and it was only because neither was seen as a threat that they hadn't been the subject of an Exalted March. Orlais was the worst; if there were any apostates left in that country, Fenris actually pitied them.

Still, however much the world may have changed, he had managed to find himself right back where he had started, a fact which depressed him more than a little.

Once inside her home, Varania dismissed him. Esperanza, the black-haired Nevarran woman who was her personal servant and most frequent lover, took his place behind Varania. Despite her subserviently bowed head, the silent Nevarran nursed an implacable hatred for her mistress and spent what little free time she was allowed drawing pictures of the vicious ways she wanted to kill Varania. Esperanza drew because some years ago Varania had had her tongue cut out, and she hated because when she was captured she had left a husband and child behind in Nevarra, never to see or hear from them again. Varania was well aware of the other woman's feelings. She had confided in Fenris that the savagery of Esperanza's love-making was incomparable ... a conversation that had been torment both for Esperanza, who had been in the room at the time, and for Fenris, who did not want to discuss his sister's sex life and who ached for Hawke's touch night after lonely night.

He had options. Varania's slaves were allowed a surprising amount of free time, and she had made it clear she didn't mind if they fraternized. She rather liked it, in fact—it added drama and tension to the house, as the maids and footmen were often feuding with each other over who was sleeping with whom. But Fenris could no more dream of touching another woman, or a man, for that matter, although several had offered, than he could dream of being able to fly back to Kirkwall. So he took care of his own urges, privately, at night. It had seemed unlike Varania to give him such privacy, until he realized, long after she had, that the privacy allowed him to remember for hours at a time what it had been like to be free. It was a uniquely appropriate form of torture, and one he could not have borne to have taken away from him. In many ways, the threat of losing his own space was a more effective one than the threat to Hawke and Bianca's lives. It was certainly a more immediate one.

The kitchen was boiling hot, which he didn’t mind at all. Gertrud, the cook, served him a bowl of broth and a hunk of bread, since he had missed the slaves' communal dinner time.

"Eat up and get to bed, unless you plan on scrubbing these pots for me."

She didn't mean it; Gertrud never let anyone near her kitchen utensils, claiming that once someone else had touched them the food no longer tasted the same. Mostly she enjoyed the solitude of running the kitchen on her own and was anxious to have Fenris move through quickly. Both of them were always aware that Varania had set Gertrud to be Fenris's watchdog, which kept Fenris from forming any ties with the other woman. Thus far, he had formed no ties of any kind—Varania kept him with her as much as possible, keeping his time with the other slaves short, and when he was free, he spent much of that time alone, thinking back on what he had left behind. He had never been a man who sought out companionship, other than Hawke's, and hers and Bianca's were the only presences he desired. Absent that possibility, he preferred to be alone. So he didn't mind Gertrud hurrying him through his meal. It was good solid food, well cooked, but it lacked savor.

He carried his bowl to the bucket full of dirty dishes, laying it on top, and then withdrew to his own small room, where he curled up in the corner, spinning the wedding ring around on its thong and thinking his own special brand of dark thoughts.

The following morning he was awake with the sunrise, which he could see through the greasy window high up in the wall of his room. Bright, hot Tevinter sun—this one thing, he had missed. Sunlight was different in all the other countries he had lived in. Cooler, somehow, and more gentle. In Tevinter, even the sun was hard and it took strength to go out in it. Most people in Tevinter slept in the middle of the day. Only the very poor and the very foolhardy ventured out in that heat and the burning sunlight of noonday. Even the grime that covered Fenris's window couldn't filter the heat of that sunlight as it streamed in, and he stretched in it like a cat, going through his forms and stances and stretching his muscles.

The advantage of being Varania's bodyguard was that he was encouraged to practice and keep up his skills. A very fine blade was at his disposal, and he could use it any time his mistress didn't actively need him.

Taken altogether it was a fine life. Varania enjoyed needling him, but she lacked the inhumanity that had characterized Danarius, and she was far more practical. She took great care of her resources, and that included her slaves. Esperanza's lost tongue was one of the few atrocities against her slaves that Varania appeared to have been guilty of; Fenris would have given a great deal to know what the defiant Nevarran had said to send his sister into such a rage. Otherwise, Varania saw to it that her slaves were as well cared for as they needed to be in order to do the work she required of them. Without intending to be, she was a fairly lenient master. Of course, this explained why she enjoyed tormenting them in other ways. Instead of denying meals, she encouraged them to compete for extra food and privileges, thus fomenting a spirit of competition that kept the slaves always looking on each other with suspicion. The rewards for informing on each other were especially good, and so each slave walked carefully and with a wary eye upon all the others.

He walked into the kitchen, where Gertrud was slicing fruit with a huge knife that she used with exquisite precision. Fenris watched her for a moment, reminded of Isabela's knife skills. Gertrud was the same, fast and confident and comfortable with her equipment. She used the knife like an extension of her arm. They should have arranged for Bianca to take lessons from Isabela, he thought. Was Hawke doing that now? Had she taken steps to get Bianca more training in archery, more books? Worry rose in him, an impulse to leave this kitchen and go accomplish all the chores related to his daughter that suddenly seemed so important, and it was only with difficulty that he reminded himself he no longer had that choice, much less the right to feel the concern.

"Something I can do for you?" Gertrud asked. The cadence of the knife sounds didn't alter, and she didn't look up. The pineapple she was cutting looked and smelled delectable.

"No," Fenris said, shaking himself. "I should go practice."

"No doubt. She'll be wanting you soon as you've eaten."

"Yes, I am certain she will."

He went on through the kitchen, briefly tempted to steal a succulent piece of pineapple from the chopping block, but a glance at Gertrud's intensely focused face convinced him of the folly of that idea. The training ground was quiet—few of Varania's slaves were fighters, a fact that continued to surprise Fenris. He wondered how she had stayed in such a prominent position amongst the magisters for so long without an extensive retinue of highly trained bodyguards.

The bright side was that he could practice alone. Which was for the best. He was used to practicing with Hawke, used to their particular ballet of matching and complementary movements, used to the inevitable consequences of their sweating, adrenaline-filled bodies moving sinuously in such proximity to one another. The memories that each position brought up had their different effects, and it wasn't unusual for Fenris to end a practice session either painfully aroused or feeling a mortifying need to hide somewhere and cry.

Varania, with her uncanny knowledge of him, seemed to realize this, and she often turned up just as he was setting down the sword at the end of a practice, popping up out of a place of concealment. No doubt she hoped to startle him into an embarrassing display of emotion. She didn't seem to be around this morning, however, and he finished up his routine with his emotions in full control, for once, merely feeling a glow of pride that his training hadn't slipped and his body seemed to be working as well as ever. Age had not yet slowed his reflexes.

As he finished oiling and polishing the sword and hung it up, he turned to find Esperanza staring at him, her dark eyes burning. She lifted a finger and pointed it at him.

"Yes?"

Her lips tightened and a faint guttural sound came from her mouth. She wanted to say something, that much was clear.

"Does Varania require my presence?"

Esperanza shook her head sharply.

"Do you require it?"

There was no response to that question. The woman simply stood there in the doorway, her eyes like smoldering coals. Abruptly, she turned and walked away, clenching her fists so tightly that Fenris could see spots of blood seeping out where her nails had dug into her own flesh. He pitied her—so much anger dwelt in that curvaceous body, anger that she could not seem to rid herself of. Perhaps she was a danger to Varania, he thought suddenly. He was not certain how he felt about that possibility. While he sympathized with Esperanza, he had no wish to see his sister harmed, not only because she represented the safety he had purchased for his family with his own freedom, but because he ... was ashamed to admit that he had come to feel a kinship with his sister. Unpleasant though she was, she called to something in him.

Fenris took himself to the slaves' baths, scrubbing himself roughly with the coldest water he could find. As so often, he thought of how he longed to scrub far beneath the skin, to scour the lyrium away. But in a figurative sense as well as the literal, he did not know if what he was could be separated from the lyrium any longer. If he understood his own age correctly, he had carried the lyrium for well over half his life. If it had not become a part of him now, if he still railed against it as being alien to himself, then who was he?


	13. Adventurers at Sea

The day of preparations had seemed more like a decade to Bianca, anxious as she was to get underway before any of the grownups could change their minds. She stood at the railing now, leaning over and staring at her mother as if with the sheer pressure of her gaze she could move Hawke along.

“Don’t worry, dumpling. Nothing’s going to stop her from going after him.”

“What takes so long?” Bianca turned an unhappy face in Isabela’s direction.

“Takes as long as it takes. She wants to make sure we have everything we need. Can’t just pick up all these people and take ‘em off on an adventure without some packing and planning.”

“You do.”

Isabela laughed. “Hardly. I carry a lot of what I need on the ship, true, but not all of it. I have things stored all over Thedas. And it can take several days to load supplies, repair sails, and dry out the crew. You’ve just never seen a real refueling stop.”

Bianca grumbled to herself, looking back at her mother. Hawke was laughing at something the dockmaster’s assistant was saying. Laughing! Didn’t she know what was at stake?

“Right,” Isabela said suddenly. “First lesson.”

“First what?”

“Lesson.”

“Oh. Right now?”

“Can’t always choose when you’re going to be taught something, sugarplum.”

“Fine, then. What’s the stupid lesson?” Bianca knew she was pouting, but she didn’t care. They needed to hurry, for the Maker’s sake! Why didn’t any of them understand that?

Unexpectedly, Isabela’s black-gloved hand came up and slapped Bianca deliberately across the face. The blow stung, although it was clear the pirate had held her strength back, meaning to make a point. “Lesson one,” she said in a voice Bianca had never heard before, “is to watch your smart mouth. There’s plenty of time to sass your elders later—if you do it during serious work time, people can get hurt. When you’re on the job, you’re on, and you keep your focus where it’s meant to be.”

“But—I didn’t know I was on the job,” Bianca protested, holding her hand to her stinging cheek.

“And you won’t always. Now, you get up in the rigging, stay there for an hour. Conceal yourself completely—if I see or hear any sign of you in that time, you’ll be swabbing the decks with a toothbrush.”

Bianca stared at her usually light-hearted aunt, but saw no indication that Isabela was anything other than deadly serious. She made a leap for the rigging, climbing handily. Behind her she heard Varric’s amused voice. “Little hard on the Princess, weren’t you, Rivaini?”

“Someone has to be, my friend. She’ll never grow up if everyone keeps letting her have her head. You have to shorten the reins sometimes in order to get the best performance. Fenris spoiled her.”

“Broody wrapped around his little girl’s finger?” Varric chuckled. “Yeah, I guess I can see that.”

“I hope you do get to see it,” Isabela muttered.

Bianca hoisted herself higher in the rigging to avoid hearing any more of their conversation.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________  
“Hawke, anything you need, you send a messenger right back here,” Aveline said, giving her friend a last hug.

“What if I want Kirkwall to go to war with the Imperium?” Hawke whispered, grinning.

“Don’t push it.”

“You’re no fun anymore.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Donnic chuckled as Aveline blushed. “Hawke, all our prayers go with you.”

“I’m praying that you kick his ass,” Aveline said.

“Part of me definitely wants to,” Hawke admitted.

“And the other part?”

“Doesn’t.” Hawke stepped aside to let a large group of men go past, although one of them bumped into her anyway.

“Sorry,” he muttered brusquely.

Hawke frowned. Where had she heard that voice before? She couldn’t remember. She watched the retreating man’s back for a moment, but couldn’t place the walk, either. No doubt someone she’d met in the Hanged Man years ago, she decided. Nothing to worry about.

“It’s not too late to leave Bianca here with us,” Aveline was saying.

“I can’t do that to her. I promised … and Isabela was right, Bianca would just have found a way to escape and no doubt make more trouble if I’d made her stay. Thanks for sending Freddy along.”

Donnic laughed. “One less boy in the house? Yes, please. I’m just sorry we couldn’t send Benoit, too, but he’s needed here.”

“Time for him to start learning the ropes of government.”

“You tie people up?” Isabela dropped lightly from the rail of the ship, landing on the wharf and draping herself over Aveline’s shoulder. “How can I get in on some of this Viscountess action?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you poxy whore.” Aveline gave Isabela a loud kiss on the cheek. “And come back soon. This visit was too short.”

“Your wish is my command, big girl.” Isabela looked at Hawke. “Time to get a move on; tides won’t wait while you jabber.”

“Got it.”

Aveline turned to Freddy. “You scamp, you behave yourself. Be useful to Hawke.”

He grinned. “I’m always useful.”

“I mean, do what she asks you to do. I know how you are.”

“Mom, I’ll be the perfect gentleman.”

Aveline’s face softened. “I know you will.” She enfolded her son in a warm hug, only letting him go when Donnic grabbed him by the shoulders to do the same.

Kethali, at the rail of the ship, sniffed quietly.

“Heart-warming, isn’t it?” Varric said. He glanced up at the elf. “Your mother’s something pretty special, too. I bet she cried when she said good-bye to you.”

As Varric had intended, Kethali chuckled. “Buckets.”

Isabela swarmed up one of the ropes to get back on the ship. Freddy watched her for a moment, and then his grin flashed out. “I can do that.” He leaped up, grasping a rope, and swarmed up himself, landing on deck next to Kethali.

“Nice moves,” Varric said to him. “You didn’t get those from your mother.”

“Like to see you try that, you mouthy little dwarf,” Aveline shouted up from the docks. Varric considered a rude gesture, but decided it was beneath both their dignities and contented himself with blowing a kiss instead.

Hawke had come up the gangplank, and she stood with the rest of them at the railing, waving down at Aveline and Donnic as Isabela put the ship in motion.

Varric and Hawke stayed there watching as the City of Chains receded into the distance, long after Bianca’s hour was up and she and Freddy and Kethali and Bethany began a rousing game of Diamondback on the deck.

“You know, Hawke,” Varric said, “this is the farthest I’ve been from Kirkwall since the time you dragged me to that wyvern hunt in Orlais.”

“That’s pathetic.”

He laughed. “What can I say, I’m a dwarf who likes his comforts. I’ve never met another woman who could tear me away from them.” Varric glanced upward. “Well, except Bianca.”

“You’ve written that story in your will, right? Because I want to hear it.”

“You think this mission will come to that?”

The smile faded from Hawke’s face. “I hope not.” Her lips tightened.

“We’ll find him, Evelyn. I promise.”

Her throat tightened, and she fought back the tears that seemed to come all too easily these days. “I’ll hold you to that.”   
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Later that night, they all gathered near the pilot wheelas Isabela steered the ship through the peaceful night. Hawke sat next to her sister, watching Bethany watch her pirate. There was a softness in Bethany’s eyes, a starriness, that made Hawke smile. After all these years, Isabela was still freedom to her ex-Circle mage lover. Freedom and magic and mystery.

“So, you might be wondering why I’ve brought you here,” Varric said, to a general rumble of laughter. “No, seriously, Hawke and I thought it was time we talked tactics. We can’t exactly just walk into Minrathous and tell them to find the broodiest elf slave in the city and bring him to us.”

“They might be glad to be rid of him,” Isabela said drily.

“It’s true,” Hawke said. “Fenris can be a pain in the ass when he wants to be. Maker, I miss that pain in the ass.” She sighed, letting the longing for him that she held at bay most of the time wash over her. After a moment she shuddered and shook it off. “Barring that unlikely possibility, I think we need to determine how we’re going to know where he’s gone.”

“I could disguise myself as a magister and pay a few visits,” Bethany suggested. Isabela’s eyes flashed dangerously in the dark and she began to open her mouth to protest, but Varric forestalled her.

“No need for those heroics, Sunshine.”

“You have a plan, Varric?” Hawke looked at him curiously. He hadn’t said anything to her, which was surprising.

“I have a piece of information you don’t, Hawke. These enterprising young gentlemen came to me with something they picked up in Darktown.” He looked approvingly at Freddy and Kethali.

“In one of the tent cities, I met an elf who had just escaped from slavery in the Imperium,” Freddy said, with unusual seriousness.

Kethali winced. “They’d cut off his ears. And he’d sustained … other injuries in his escape. He wasn’t going to last much longer.”

“You couldn’t heal him?” Bethany asked.

“No, he was too far gone. I made him comfortable. But he told us about some of the highest-ranked magisters currently in power.”

Bianca stood up, shifting her weight back and forth impatiently. “How does that help?”

“Because one of them was Varania,” Varric said.

“We didn’t know who that was,” Freddy said. “We just brought the list of names to Varric.”

“Seems pretty obvious why he thought he could go to Tevinter, doesn’t it, Hawke?”

She groaned. Of course he would have. “I don’t suppose the years have softened her any.”

“I wouldn’t bet my room at the Hanged Man on it, no.”

“I don’t understand,” Bianca said. “Who is Varania?”

“Your aunt,” Hawke said. “Your aunt who hates your father, blames him for everything bad that ever happened to her, and hates me even more. What do we do now? I can’t get anywhere near there—she’ll know who I am, even now.”

“I can.” They had all almost forgotten Orana was there—she had busied herself about the ship as soon as she came on board, arranging staterooms, terrorizing the cook until the galley met her requirements, and generally seeing to every need she could anticipate. “This is why you need me, Mistress Hawke,” she went on in the surprised silence. “One elf is much like another in Tevinter, and I have been away for a long time. I was no one special when I did live there. Papa was Mistress Hadriana’s cook, but he kept me out of sight as much as possible. I can blend in and find out what we need to know.”

“Orana, I can’t ask you to put yourself in danger—“

“You haven’t asked, and that’s why I am offering. You took me in, you’ve made me practically one of your family. And your mother …” Orana’s voice trailed off and she gave a soft sniff. “The memory of your mother’s great kindness to me would impel me to assist you even if I did not already owe you my life.” She spoke in a stronger tone now. “When we dock, I will go into Minrathous and find out where he is, and we can determine the best course of action from that point.”


	14. Close to You

They had docked outside Minrathous three days before and taken a room at a seedy bar on the outskirts of the city. The owner knew Isabela and could be trusted to be discreet about their presence. Only Orana, Isabela, and Hawke had disembarked thus far. Everyone else remained aboard the ship, chafing at the enforced inactivity but aware that the reconnaissance needed to be accomplished before they could make a move.

Orana had spent the last several days before docking baking up a storm, performing wonders in the ship’s cramped little galley. Once in town, she took a basket and moved through the streets of Minrathous, selling her wares to the cooks. Hawke had paced the little room all day long, knowing she could do nothing until Orana returned. It didn’t sit well with her, waiting while someone else did the work. That had never been her way. Part of her entertained fantasies of marching into Varania’s house and demanding to see her husband, of fighting her way out of the city with Fenris at her side. 

But that had never been the right method for tackling the Imperium. Was there a right way? Fenris hadn’t thought so; that’s why he was here. She’d thought they could ignore the slave hunters, the hungry feelers of the magisters sent out after the great wealth that her husband carried in his skin, the power he contained. Neither of them had been right.

Impatiently, she drew her thoughts away from that familiar path. She couldn’t think straight anyway, not this close to him. He was somewhere in this very city. The knowledge was like ants in Hawke’s skin—she wouldn’t be able to rest, to plan, or to be useful to her team until she’d seen him.

“Sweet thing, you’re like a caged cat. If you think you’re fooling anyone, you can think again.” Isabela chuckled. She was lounging on the bed, deceptively boneless and indolent. “We all know what you intend to do, and I’m here to tell you, I’m not letting you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Hawke didn’t look at the pirate; she couldn’t, not without confirming her suspicions.

Isabela got smoothly to her feet. “If that was Bethany, you think I could be sitting here in this room? I know how you feel.”

“It’s never been Bethany, not since you two got together. Don’t tell me you know what this feels like,” Hawke snapped.

Strong brown hands closed around her arms, holding her still. “The Chantry would love to get their hands on her. First Enchanter-turned-pirate, whose name happens to be the same as the ex-Champion of Kirkwall? Oh, they’d wet themselves if they thought they had a chance. You ever wonder why we don’t retire someplace quiet on all our ill-gotten gains? That’s why. My reputation keeps her safe. And if they ever took her?” Isabela smiled grimly. “They’d see, all right … up until I put their lights out for good.”

“But you’re going to keep me from charging in and breaking Fenris out of his sister’s evil clutches? I never knew you to be a hypocrite, Isabela.”

“I’m not. Because if I ever was in that situation, you’d knock me out and tie me up … and not just for fun, either. I’m thinking more clearly than you are right now, and I’m going to make sure you don’t mess this up before it ever gets a chance to get started.”

Hawke sighed, letting her shoulders relax. “You’re right, Isabela. I can’t go off half-cocked and endanger the whole mission. Thanks.”

“What are friends for?” Isabela let go, retiring to her place on the narrow bed. She dug out a deck of cards. “Wicked Grace?” At Hawke’s pained wince—that was Fenris’s game—she nodded. “Never mind, then.”

The doorknob jiggled slightly before the door creaked open and Orana slipped in. Her basket was empty, nothing but crumbs left in the napkin that lined it. She collapsed on the bed with a weary sigh. “That was a long day.”

Hawke restrained herself from asking for as long as she could, not wanting to pounce on the elf with all the ferocity she felt. When she couldn’t stand it anymore, she said, “Well?”

Orana’s eyes flew open with a start. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mistress.” She yawned. “I’m just so tired.”

“You can go straight to sleep,” Hawke promised, feeling a pang of guilt at the lie. “Now, please tell me?”

“He’s there, I’m sure of it. I got one of the servants in the neighboring estate to talk to me. She couldn’t stop chattering about Magister Varania’s handsome new slave.” She glanced at Hawke, her cheeks reddening. “Sorry.”

Hawke shrugged. “Well, he is, isn’t he? What else? Is he—all right?”

“Yes. Apparently she takes good care of her slaves, physically, at least.” Orana shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, lost in memories.

“I’m sorry about this, Orana. It must be so hard for you.”

“I’ll be all right, Mistress. It’s just—all those slaves, still locked in that life. I am so grateful for everything I’ve had the chance to experience.” She looked up at Hawke, her eyes shining. “Thank you, Mistress.”

“It was and still is my pleasure, you know that. Did you … did you get to Varania’s?”

“Yes. The cook bought several loaves of fruit bread. I didn’t see Master Fenris, but I think I found his room—I was going to put the bread away in what I thought was a pantry, but the cook stopped me, told me that wasn’t for food. I bet the Magister keeps him there where the cook can keep an eye on him.”

“A cook? Stop Fenris?” Hawke asked skeptically.

“You’d have to see her. She’s a big one, and I wouldn’t want to cross her.”

“Thank you, Orana. You must be hungry,” Hawke said. “Would you mind going down into the tavern and getting us something to eat?”

“Of course. I’m starved, now that you mention it. The baked goods sold so well I didn’t even have a chance to sample any.” Orana got to her feet. “Maybe they have some nice hot tea.”

As soon as she was out of the room, Isabela lunged for Hawke, her strong hands closing implacably on Hawke’s arm. “I can read you like a book, sister. Not a chance.”

“What?”

“You’re going to slip off to ‘help Orana with the food’, talk her into showing you where Varania’s estate is, and take off. Aren’t you?” Isabela nodded knowingly. “Well, not with Isabela on the job, you’re not.”

“Sorry, Isabela. Don’t know what I was thinking.” Hawke offered the pirate a slightly guilty smile. When Isabela grinned back, Hawke punched her in the jaw. The pirate collapsed, landing partly on the floor and partly on the bed. Hawke bent over her, making sure Isabela was out for the count. “I meant it, you know,” she whispered. “I am sorry, and I’m really not thinking straight. But I have to see him. I know you understand.”

Deftly she tied Isabela up with a set of thongs. Not that the pirate couldn’t free herself, but it would slow her down for at least a few minutes once she came to. The bar was full; Hawke slipped through it adroitly, keeping her head down, oblivious to the intent gaze of a man in the back corner. Once Hawke found Orana, it wasn’t hard to convince the elf to lead her to Varania’s estate. Talking Orana into leaving her there was a bit more of a challenge, as was getting Orana to distract the cook by pretending to have lost an important recipe card on her previous visit, but at last Hawke had slipped unnoticed into the little room off the kitchen and was standing in the dark breathing in the familiar scent of leather and lyrium. He wasn’t here, but he had been, and he would be again. She could sense it. All concern for her own safety, or for the greater mission at hand, was lost in the pounding of her heart and the trembling in her limbs. He would be here, with her, soon. All she needed to do now was wait.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The only sound in the room was the scratching of Varania’s quill across the parchment. She wrote, and Fenris stood across the room, facing her desk, and watched her. His sister desired him to act as something akin to both a statue and a mirror while she worked. She liked to look up at him from her writing and think out loud at him.

At last, she put the quill down, using the thumb of her left hand to massage the aching palm and fingers of her right. Fenris wondered why she chose to write all her correspondence herself rather than employ a secretary to do such things. Of course, most slaves could not read or write, and most hirelings could not be trusted, so he supposed that would be her answer, were he to ask the question. He had no intention of volunteering himself for such a task; he would keep the secret of his education until such time as he could no longer conceal it.

Varania leaned back in her chair, still rubbing her hand and wrist. “I found the most interesting thing the other day. Shall I tell you about it?”

He gave no response other than a slight lift of his shoulders to convey how little he cared.

“Your enthusiasm is so charming.” She stretched her fingers out and curled them up again. “I was in the great library, researching a new ritual I was thinking of attempting, one to prolong—well, no concern of yours what it does. I discovered a book hidden deep in the stacks. You see, magical charms protect the library. One cannot remove the books without destroying them. In that way, the Imperium preserves its great stores of knowledge. Otherwise, I’m certain the last person to use that book would have secreted it away where lesser mortals such as myself could not get at it.” Her smile was slow and triumphant.

Fenris was listening now, interested in her tale despite himself. But he would not let her see it; he carefully kept his gaze focused on a flaw in the front edge of her desk.

“You would like to know what was in the book, wouldn’t you? Of course you would. You see, in it was detailed the ritual that robbed you of your memories.”

His gaze snapped up immediately, meeting her eyes in fascinated horror. Mutely he begged of her what he could not bring himself to ask in words.

“Oh, I know, you thought it was a side effect of the pain from the lyrium.” She shook her head. “Not so, brother.”

“Can you—can you reverse it?” The question was torn from him, the very words painful as they moved through his throat. He hated himself for the pleading and the longing in those words.

“I’m afraid not. So sorry.” Her tone made it clear she was anything but.

He would cheerfully have torn his own throat out rather than let her hear the little moan of disappointment he could not prevent himself from uttering.

“But …”

He would not fall for her tricks. He would not fall for her tricks. He would not fall for— “But what?”

“I could perform the ritual again.”

Fenris’s mouth fell open. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t dare. Take his memories? Bianca’s first laugh, Hawke in battle, Evelyn in his arms? No. “No,” he said, his voice hoarse. “No!”

“Oh, never without your permission.” He hated the smile that played across Varania’s face and the smug tone of her voice as she continued. “I merely thought you might want me to.”

“Why would I wish you to take my memories?”

“Isn’t it—painful—to keep holding on to the remembrance of things you can never have again? Wouldn’t you like, just once, to have it stop, to be just Leto and forget that Fenris ever existed?”

She knew him too well, knew the seduction of the idea, the occasional traitorous whisper in his mind that it would be better if he could not think of them. “No,” he said one more time; the word was filled with pain.

Varania stood up briskly. “Well, the offer stands, if you change your mind.” She stretched her hand again. “I believe I require Esperanza’s attentions this evening. Care to join us?”

Fenris cast her a withering glare, and she laughed.

“Some other night, perhaps. I can see that something in your sojourn in Kirkwall fostered an all-new prudery in you. Very tiresome. You should work on that. Hmm… maybe I’ll send someone to your room. Tressora? She’s very comely, don’t you think?”

He shrugged. She would send Tressora to him or she wouldn’t; he had little say in the matter. Not that he had any intention of slaking his longings with anyone; if Varania sent him a companion, he would courteously turn her away.

It was clear that Varania could read the passage of his thoughts from the skeptical, amused look in her eye. “Very well. You may go.”

Fenris did so, bypassing the kitchen entirely. Gertrud was busy in there with some woman, presumably a friend, having a cup of tea. That in itself was odd, but not odd enough to distract him from the tumult in his mind. He escaped gratefully into his room, leaning back against the door in the darkness. Only then did he realize he wasn’t alone. He could not have said what told him, because the person made no sound. Was there a suggestion of extra heat in the room, a vibration from the person’s breathing? Varania’s words flashed through his mind. Could she have planned this all along, planted Tressora in his room already?

But the excited thrum of his heart told him that his body had leaped ahead of his brain to the right answer. The word was hanging in the air before he had time to consider the possibility.

“Hawke.”


	15. Collide

“Hawke.” His voice; how she had missed it. Evelyn’s knees went weak at the sound.

All the way here, those long days and longer nights aboard the ship, she had played this meeting over and over again in her mind. She had never been able to decide what her first response should be. In her imagination she’d hit him, kissed him, ripped his clothes off, and even, shamefully, in the darkest hour, once thought of running him through with her blade. But here in the moment there was no thought. Before the sound of her name had faded from the air she was across the room and in his arms, kissing him with all the weeks of built-up fear and longing and desperation.

Her body was so warm and firm against his, her kiss so familiar and well-loved. Fenris held her close. She smelled of tar and salt spray—of metal and the oil she used on her armor and the freedom he had all but forgotten to long for. He cradled the back of her head in his hand, savoring the taste of her sweet mouth. Slowly as the kiss went on he became aware of his need to look at her, to assure himself with the evidence of his eyes that she was well. He disengaged from her just enough to grope on the shelf for the matches and to light the lantern that hung by the door. He cupped her cheek with one hand, looking searchingly at her face, so much paler than he remembered. She clearly had not been sleeping well. He wanted to kiss away the dark smudges under her eyes and the lines of worry that creased her forehead. 

The light fell on Fenris’s face and for a moment Evelyn couldn’t determine what felt so off about the way he looked. Then it struck her—his hair had been shorn, that wonderful silky white hair that brushed so maddeningly against her when he kissed her body. The absence of the hair made him look alien, somehow, the ears that he usually tried to hide made more prominent. The grave difference between their races was suddenly stark and sharply defined, here in this room where he was a slave and she one of the richest women in the Free Marches. Her hand raised to touch the spiky dusting of hair that remained, her lips wordlessly forming his name.

The unaccustomed feel of her hand on his nearly bare scalp woke Fenris to the realities of the situation, and he pulled away, though his body felt chilled without the contact. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think?” She couldn’t keep from her voice the hurt at the way he had jerked his body out of her arms.

“I see Varric was unable to perform even the simple task I had asked of him.”

“Did you really think he could have lied to me? To me, of all people? You might as well have asked him to lend you Bianca.”

“I had hoped that he could at least have talked you out of such a foolish and reckless risk to your safety.”

“Me, foolish and reckless? I’m not the one who walked into a Magister’s house with no plan and no backup!”

“I did so to protect you!”

Their voices had risen with their emotions; now both of them froze, concerned that they might have been overheard.

“You should go,” he said softly.

“We should go.”

“I cannot come with you, Hawke. Varania—“

“I’m not afraid of her.”

“That is not precisely what I meant. She—things are different than I had anticipated. She has promised to see that you are safe from pursuit by the Tevinter slave-hunters.”

“And you believe her? She’d say whatever you wanted to hear in order to keep you in her retinue.”

Fenris shivered. Perhaps she was right. No doubt she was. Still … “I owe her. When they were freed—she and my mother were punished, horribly, in return for the boon.”

“That’s not your fault. It never was. You tried to do right by them, in the only way you could.” Hawke came closer, putting her hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it away in the gesture that had been so familiar all those years ago; that she recognized it was evident in her shocked eyes. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I see she’s done a fine job manipulating you; if only you weren’t such an easy target.” She sighed. “It’s not as if Varania is still suffering. She’s done quite well for herself.”

“That is not the point.” The hit about him being easily manipulated stung. Was he? Is that how she thought of him? His resolve wavered. Hawke was here, so close, so strong and determined and indomitable. They had won through every other obstacle together. Perhaps she was right; perhaps there were other options. Had his fears led him into a hasty decision? “Where would we go?”

Joy flared in Hawke, fierce and bright. “Does it matter? Anywhere. We’ll be together, that’s all that’s important.”

It was the wrong answer. He remembered her face, drawn and wearied from all the moves, the smell of fish in that last ramshackle hovel, the sight of Hawke falling to her knees as her lifeblood pumped from her body. “We tried that before. It failed. Being together is less important than your life.”

“What life is it without you? I’d rather die than see you a slave again.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” She reached for him again, her voice soft and caressing, like a feather drawn across his body. “Fenris …”

_Venhedis_! How he wanted to yield. His very bones were melting from the depth of his need for her. But to do so would imperil her yet again, and she might well not survive the next attack. He could, barely, live without her. He could not live with knowing he was the cause of her death. Desperately he turned away, swallowing hard to clear the thickness from his throat, to give his voice the strength he needed in order to say what he needed to say. “My name is Leto.”

The sharp hiss of her indrawn breath was like a knife in his gut. And then she flew at him, slamming him into the stone wall, her fists pounding against his chest. “Damn you! Damn you to the Void, you arrogant bastard!” There were tears in her voice, but no faltering in her arms as she struck.

Fenris grabbed her wrists, holding them there in front of her face. They stared at each other, defiant blue eyes versus determined green. Hawke was the first to look away, blinking against the film of tears. Her gaze fell on his left hand, wrapped around her wrist just in front of her eyes. “You’re not wearing your wedding ring,” she said in a very small voice.

It was on the tip of his tongue to chide her for her ignorance. Slaves did not wear rings, or jewelry, unless it be at the whim of their master. And to wear a wedding ring in front of Varania would be to give her ammunition to taunt him with … and no doubt to have it taken away, as well. But he stopped himself. If there was ever a chance to convince her this effort was fruitless, to make her turn around and leave him here, as she must do, this was it. He could push her over the edge merely by telling the truth.

He faltered for only a moment, not wanting to see the look on her face when he said it. And then: “I have broken my vow never to leave your side. As such, I have violated the terms of our marriage, and I am no longer your husband.” Later, he promised himself, later he would allow himself to give way to the nausea that followed saying those awful words. After that, he would weep. The memory of the lost, empty look in her eyes would be all the catalyst he would ever need to bring himself to tears, of that he was certain.

Her beautiful blue eyes blinked at him, the blankness in them like a knife in his gut. She twisted her right wrist neatly out of his left hand and began to pull the left one away as well, but she stopped, staring at the band of red velvet tied around his right wrist. “You won’t wear your ring, the symbol of our marriage, but you’ll wear this thing, the thing you wore for all those years when your stubbornness and your insistence on wallowing in fear and grief and suffering kept us apart? If this,” she took his wrist and shook it in front of his eyes, “is where we’ve come to again, maybe I should just have given you to Danarius when he came knocking and saved myself all the trouble in between.” Hawke let his wrist go, and he clutched it against him, his fingers curling around a loose thread on the velvet band, nauseated by her words and the venom in her voice. “Once a slave, always a slave. I should have known.” Her lip curled in disgust, her tone dripping with it. Each word hit him like a blow, far harder than her fists had mere moments ago.

It took all his will to stand up straight, because he wanted to fall at her feet and beg forgiveness. But what forgiveness could there be? There was none for his actions, nor could there be a happy ending for what he had broken. “Perhaps you should have done so, then.”

Evelyn clenched her fists at her side to avoid seeing the mocking glint of her own ring. “Apparently you were right. It was stupid to come here. I won’t make that mistake again.” She turned on her heel, her shoulders straight as she walked away from him.

Panic filled Fenris. Once she reached the door, that would be the end. It was what he wanted, but it was every nightmare he’d had for twenty years. And he had not even asked— “How is Bianca?”

That halted her. Hawke put her hand on the doorknob. Lifting her head, she looked straight into his eyes. “You have made it abundantly clear that my life, which includes my daughter, is no longer your concern. Good-bye … Leto.”

The door closed behind her, and Fenris was alone. Entirely, completely alone with his memories.


	16. Without You I've Lost My Way

The thunk of the door closing was like an anvil in his head. Fenris could no longer control the violent trembling of his limbs, and he sank onto the stone floor, shoving his fist into his mouth to muffle the sobs he couldn’t hold back. He bit down on his own flesh so hard he tasted the mingled blood and lyrium that oozed from the punctures his teeth made. Lifting his head, he spat the noxious liquid onto the floor. If it had not been for that, he could have stayed with her.

If it hadn’t been for that, whispered that small, insidious voice in the back of his head that had never been entirely silenced, would she even have wanted you in the first place?

Such thoughts shamed Hawke, and they shamed him for thinking them. But he could not help it. He knew himself—he was flawed and distrustful and angry. And yes, he brooded. After all these years he could admit that. What was there in him to attract such a woman as Evelyn Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, scion of the Amells?

But even as he attempted to convince himself that she bore some blame for how they had ended, he could not. This mess was of his own making … and it mattered not at all that he had caused it in the belief that he was doing what was best for Hawke and Bianca.

Memories washed over him as he huddled there on the floor: teaching Hawke to play a passable game of Wicked Grace; Bianca’s tottering little first steps; bandaging a scrape on Bianca’s knee; the always delightful process of helping Hawke out of her armor; lying with his head in Hawke’s lap as she told Bianca stories; holding Hawke’s hand as Varric pronounced them husband and wife, there on the Wounded Coast; Hawke’s angry, disgusted face as he pronounced all those memories null and void, their marriage dissolved by his abandonment of her. The last one broke what little control he had. He rocked back and forth, keening cries torn from his throat, weeping for his own folly and the loss of everything he’d never dreamed he could have.

Eventually he came back to himself. The paroxysm of weeping hadn’t helped; he was still alone here without her. And while that had been true before, the look on her face when she’d left … He shuddered. As bad as living without her had been, it was infinitely worse to know that he had hurt her, and that she certainly must hate him for what he had done and what he had said. He hated himself.

The pain was too great. It compressed his chest so that he could hardly breathe, it played memories of all varieties in his head, it chilled his body so that he shook uncontrollably. He could not live with this.

And then it came to him: Varania’s story about the ritual. In the morning, he could go to her. He could ask her—no, not ask her, she would be sure to taunt him by refusing to perform it. He could bring up the subject and beg her not to. Yes. And then there would be searing white pain in his head and after that … no more. He would be nothing more than Leto, Varania’s slave brother.

Fenris sank onto his pallet, rubbing the velvet band around his wrist and staring with burning eyes into the darkness. This one last night he would give himself over to the memories, wallow in them, and then, in the morning, he would try to let them go.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Hawke was so upset she almost forgot she wasn’t supposed to be in this house, storming down the hallway. The sound of Orana’s laughter brought her up short, and she paused, listening. Apparently Orana was keeping the cook distracted by sharing a cup of tea with her—they were chatting about recipes. For a moment, Hawke listened, part of her seizing on the chance to distract herself by thinking of the ingredients the cook was talking about. But the other part wouldn’t be distracted from what had just happened—his coldness, his determination to go on with this madness, his insistence on severing all the bonds that had connected them. Why was he so absolutely convinced the only safety lay in separation? They had lived together this long and had always defeated the obstacles in their way; or, rather, all the obstacles but the ones in Fenris’s head.

Leto’s, she reminded herself. He wanted to be Leto now. But she didn’t know any Leto. She knew Fenris. She loved Fenris. It was his image that would stay in her heart, not that of the defeated slave she had left behind.

Movement in the kitchen reminded her that she was still standing poised in the hallway, where anyone could see her. She ducked down behind a worktable piled with pots and pans, moving as stealthily as she knew how—which wasn’t very, but had improved over the years with Isabela’s patient, often amused, tutelage. Orana and the cook were still chatting over their tea, although it sounded as if the conversation was winding down. Hawke felt a moment’s panic. Much as she appreciated Orana, she had to be alone right now. She couldn’t face anyone, not yet, not until she had … had what? Come to terms, cried her eyes out until she was sick, found some night-stalking thief to beat the bloody pulp out of? It didn’t matter. She needed to get out of here, to be moving, going. Where wasn’t important.

It took longer than she wanted to open the door quietly and slip out, but then she was free in the dark warm night air of Minrathous. The city that had stolen her husband. She wanted to burn it down. Maybe she would.

Evelyn was surprised to hear the little hiccuping giggle that escaped her. She felt drunk on despair, willing to do just about anything to go another minute without thinking. Because it wasn’t too late to go back in there, to that little room, to strip in front of him and run her hands over the markings on his chest, just enough—

No! She had never used the passion they shared as a weapon, and she wouldn’t start now. Besides, that was one that might well do more damage to her than to him. In those moments of vulnerability, would she beg him to come back? Maybe she would. And she couldn’t. No, if there had ever been a chance that he might come back it would have to have been his decision. Nothing else would have meant anything, not in the long run.

Dizzily she stopped, putting her hand on the wall of the nearest building. She hadn’t been paying attention to where she was walking, so desperate was she to get away from Varania’s house and to try to outrun her own thoughts and emotions. Now she was lost in the middle of Minrathous. Worse, the adrenaline of the argument had faded and she was feeling cold and weary, despite the heat of the evening.

Hawke, you idiot, she thought to herself. She should have waited for Orana.

For just a moment, she leaned against the wall, pressing her forehead against the cool stone, but it reminded her too much of him. She forced herself to walk down the alley in the direction of the distant docks. Finding the sea would help her get her bearings.

Strong arms snaked around her waist and she was lifted off her feet. A gloved hand covered her mouth, and that maddeningly familiar voice whispered in her ear, “You’ve led us a merry chase, Champion. But we’ve got you now.”

Some kind of powder was blown into her face, and the world went black.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Orana hurried into the tavern, looking eagerly around her. She had seen Mistress Hawke leave the Magister’s house, glimpsing her stealthy departure over the cook’s broad shoulder, and had waited long enough to be sure Hawke hadn’t been detected before taking her leave. Spying Isabela near the bar, she crossed the room.

The pirate had a slab of raw meat pressed against her jaw, which was swollen and turning purple.

“What happened to you?” Orana asked.

“Hawke happened,” Isabela said, speaking out of the side of her mouth opposite the bruise. “She knocked me out when I wouldn’t let her out of the room. Bet she didn’t tell you that part.”

“I’m sure she had her reasons,” Orana said loyally. “What are you doing with that meat?”

“Drawing out the bruise. I’m damn sure not going to eat it.”

Orana sniffed it and made a face. “No, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t touch it, either. Where is Mistress Hawke, anyway?”

“Where?” Isabela took the meat off her face and sat up, looking alarmed. “Isn’t she with you?”

“No! She left the Ma—the place before I did. She should have been back by now.”

Isabela frowned, wincing as the muscles in her jaw shifted. “If she left alone—she was alone?” At Orana’s nod, she went on, “She was probably upset, if things went badly. Maybe she went for a walk.”

“Maybe. But in Minrathous, that’s not so safe. Can you find her?”

“Strange city, dead of night? Not even I am that good. If she’s not back in the morning, we’ll look for her then.” Isabela signaled for the bartender, pointing at the empty mug in front of her with a refilling gesture.

As he poured, he remarked, “Fellow was asking about you ladies. I told him to run along and mind his own business, but he seemed pretty interested in your friend.”

“What kind of fellow?”

“A tall man, blonde, looked like his real color. Had a foreign accent—not from the Imperium, that’s for sure.”

Orana and Isabela looked at one another in confusion. “No blondes on this mission. Bollocks!” She swallowed the mug full of rum in one long gulp, handing it back to the bartender. “Better settle up; we’re weighing anchor. Should’ve known,” she muttered, digging out her coin pouch. “Couldn’t’ve been just a simple search and rescue, oh, no. Always has to be the complicated one.” Isabela turned to Orana. “Come on, crumb cake. Time to go Hawke-ing.”


	17. Plans in Motion

Bianca pulled her knees up to her chest, turning her face to the sun. She had to admit shipboard life had been more fun than she’d expected—talking to Kethali at night in the peace of the late watch; chasing Freddy through the rigging; slowly improving her skills under Isabela’s surprisingly firm tutelage. She was impatient to be allowed on shore, and to go get her father back, but in the meantime the sun was warm and the breeze refreshing. Of course, it wasn’t advisable to sit out in the sun in the middle of the day, not with skin as fair as hers, but the early mornings, like this one, were warm and peaceful.

At a faint sound, she glanced over the side, and jumped to her feet when she saw the small boat. Only Isabela and Orana were in it. Where was her mother? Had they found her father? Were her parents together now? The boat came closer, and a chill rippled through Bianca’s body at the sight of Isabela’s bruised face and the uncharacteristic frown the pirate wore. Something had gone wrong.

She ran to the side, waiting impatiently as Isabela climbed the rope ladder.

“What happened?”

“Wait a second, Bianca.” Bethany’s gentle hands pushed her aside; she hadn’t even known her aunt was there. The mage inspected the bruise on Isabela’s jaw, probing to see how bad the damage was, and then healed it. “You put meat on that, didn’t you? You reek of it.”

“Sorry, love. Best I could do under the circumstances.” 

“My sister give that to you?”

Isabela grinned. “Should’ve known better than to trust her when she was being reasonable.”

“My mother hit you?” Bianca was shocked.

“She had to. I was in her way.”

“Let me guess,” Bethany said. “My sister hit you to get you out of the way and then talked Orana into taking her to see that—Fenris,” she amended, with a sidelong glance at Bianca.

Orana looked down at her feet shame-facedly. “I should have known better than to take her there. I am so sorry!”

Varric had come up behind Bianca, and he nudged her gently aside so he could reach Orana. He put a hand on her arm. “You’re not the first to let Hawke talk you into something you should have known better than to do, and you won’t be the last. After all, aren’t we all here against our better judgments because Hawke asked us to come? Don’t feel badly—nothing was going to stop her from getting to him.” With a friendly shake of Orana’s arm he let her go and looked over at Isabela. “Where is Hawke?”

“That’s the real problem; we don’t know.”

“What?” Bianca couldn’t keep the quaver out of her voice. How could her mother just go off and leave them—leave her—like this? They were supposed to be a team! “Where did she go?”

“Why don’t you all take a step back and let me tell the whole story?” Isabela snapped. She pushed through the group of them, standing in the center of the deck and taking a deep breath of the salty air. “That’s better. Look, now. Hawke hit me, talked Orana into taking her to Varania’s mansion. While there, she had a meet-up with stubborn and broody, or so we assume, and left alone. That’s the last we’ve seen of her.”

Varric groaned. “I don’t like that. Brooding by herself isn’t Hawke’s way at all.”

“Maybe they made a plan,” Bianca suggested.

Varric and Bethany and Isabela exchanged glances. Varric shook his head, reluctantly. “I can’t imagine a plan Hawke wouldn’t have communicated to us. This … I don’t like this.”

“Something’s rotten in the state of Minrathous,” Isabela agreed. “And that’s not all. The bartender told me a blond man was asking about us. Didn’t find us, but he was gone by the time I got free and came down to the bar. Any idea who that could have been?”

“No doubt some spy of the Magister’s,” Freddy suggested. “Keeping watch to see if Hawke came to take back Serah Fenris?”

Varric nodded slowly. “Makes sense, Scamp. Could be. I’d have thought Varania’s men would be more subtle, but you never know. Could be she skimps on the payments.”

The realities of the situation felt like waves closing over Bianca’s head. “Are you saying that something’s happened to my mother?” She felt Kethali’s slender fingers entwine with hers, squeezing reassuringly, and it helped to quell the rising panic.

“Sounds about right, kitten.”

“Wh-what are we going to do? How do we find her?”

“Varric and I will go into town—“

“You can’t!” Bethany interrupted. “You think they won’t know who Varric is? He’s entirely too conspicuous. I’ll go.”

“You’re not a tracker, sweetheart.”

“I am,” Freddy said from where he stood behind Orana. “And while the Imperium doesn’t particularly respect Kirkwall, I think they’d think twice before starting an international incident by harming one of my mother’s sons.”

“Scamp makes a good point,” Varric said.

“What about me? I want to go!” Bianca cried. “She’s my mother!”

“You think either of your parents would thank us for putting you in danger? No,” Bethany said. “Not a chance. Not on my watch. If I could send you back to Kirkwall, I would.”

Bianca opened her mouth to protest, but the grown-ups wore identical expressions that clearly said the discussion was closed. “Fine.”

Kethali squeezed her hand again, and she tried to let go of the resentment she felt, feeling a wave of cool calm wash over her.

“Orana, you’ll be all right here?” Bethany asked. The elf nodded, wringing her hands and still looking apologetic.

“I’ll row over with you,” Varric offered. “We can discuss tracking tactics.”

“I’m not letting you pull a Hawke on me, dwarf,” Isabela warned.

“Me? Wouldn’t dream of it.”  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Hawke opened her eyes, groaning. Her head still felt fuzzy from whatever that powder had been, but she tried to think clearly and evaluate her surroundings for some clue as to who held her and how to get away. Her hands were tied tightly with rope, her legs bound together with heavy chains. She lay on her back in an unlit enclosure, but it was dim rather than dark—light coming in from a dirty window. Beneath her, the familiar rocking of a ship, the squeak of ropes and boards, the splash of waves against the sides. Where was she being taken? And by whom?

She struggled to sit up, but her bonds, the remnants of nausea from the drug, and the motion of the ship kept her from achieving any kind of balance. Her head hurt from the attempt, and she sank back onto the bunk. Her eyes closed, and she slept.  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
“Good morning, brother.” Varania’s green eyes were sparkling this morning, a fact which boded poorly for anyone who encountered her. She was clearly in a mischievous mood, and that made her dangerous.

“Varania.”

“Ah, always so formal. When will you unbend, Leto?”

He shuddered at the name. He couldn’t help it—the memory of Hawke speaking it in that tone of dripping disgust was too clear to him. And Varania, who missed nothing, noticed.

“Tell me, did you pass a pleasant night?”

She didn’t know about Hawke’s visit. She couldn’t. This must be a fishing expedition, and Fenris would not jump to the bait. “It was tolerable.”

“Hm.” Varania took her seat behind her desk, pulling the parchment on which she kept her list of appointments toward her. “Barrus. How tiresome. No doubt he will whine and plead for more time before he pays for the work I did for him. What do you think, Leto, should I kill him? He never will pay, and I simply can’t afford to let it get around that I do such complicated enchantments for free.”

Fenris said nothing. Perhaps he should care if she killed some Tevinter merchant … but he did not. What did it matter? What did anything matter? He closed his eyes against the memory of Hawke’s face last night, and the memory of the thud of the closing door. These memories were worse torture, far worse, than the lost ones ever had been.

“Leto?” Varania’s voice was imperative.

“It is your decision, Mistress,” he said, the title rising to his lips automatically, and without the faintly sardonic tone he usually employed.

“You are remarkably docile today. Perhaps you are worried I will perform the ritual I alluded to last night? You hope to appease me with this show of obedience and resignation?” The parchment dropped onto the surface of the desk as she turned her focus to him.

She had brought the topic up herself! How incredibly fortunate. Fenris felt a flash of panic and horror—could he really be considering this? But he could not stand to remember what he had done. That was more than any man could bear, he was certain. It was far more than he could. The thought of sitting alone, night after night, thinking of Hawke’s face as she left him—no. “Ritual?” he asked, as if he had forgotten.

Varania’s eyes narrowed, glittering. She wasn’t fooled, but she did enjoy the game. “Perhaps you do not need a ritual to wipe your mind clean of its memories. Age appears to have done that work already.”

“And there you have it. Why exert yourself unnecessarily?”

“It would be no trouble.” Peering at him intently, she rose from her chair, coming around the corner of the desk toward him. “You were horrified by the mere idea last night. Today, it bothers you not at all. Why?”

“Perhaps I am aware you would not do it.”

“You think me a coward?”

“I think you too prudent to let go of such an advantage. You like me in full possession of my memories so that you may taunt me with them … not to mention well aware of those I have already had taken from me, so that you may dangle them in front of me like a cat’s toy.”

“You always think you’re so clever. What if I tire of your incessant brooding over your losses and wish to mold myself a new Leto, one more to my liking?”

“You could not guarantee such a thing.”

Varania was standing in front of him now, her green eyes boring into his, seeming to see all the way through him. “There is more to this than you are admitting. What could possibly have made you change your— _Venhedis_!” she said suddenly, and with venom. “She was here. Wasn’t she? I don’t know how, but she was here, and you saw her, and it ended poorly. And now you want to rid yourself of the memories. Want it badly enough to let me win for the first time in your life.”

“No, don’t be foolish,” he said automatically, but she disregarded his words.

“Perhaps I will hunt down your little human. How would you like to see Hawke enslaved in front of you? I could put chains on her and force her to service you. Would you like that?” Her face was very close to his now, her voice low and seductive.

To his horror, Fenris couldn’t help picturing Hawke as she described and was aroused by the image. “Shut up,” he said quietly, miserably.

“Oh, you like that. I can make it happen. Just a snap of my fingers, and my lackeys will find her.”

His fist shot out, closing around her throat. “You leave her alone!”

“How do you plan to stop me?” A word from her and fire licked along the edge of his gauntlet, burning his flesh. He held his hand there, fighting the urge to squeeze, for as long as he could before the pain grew too great. “I didn’t think so,” she said. “Your Hawke, she left you?”

He nodded, his head drooping in shame and defeat.

“She won’t stay away for long,” Varania said, almost to herself. “Damned Champion. She’ll be a thorn in my side if I don’t do something about her.”

“No. I drove her away; she will not return.”

“More fool you,” his sister scoffed. “You may have shaken her, but she’ll be back. Her kind does not give up.”

Fenris felt as though a fog had been lifted from in front of his eyes, the world coming sharply into focus for the first time in a long while. Could Varania be right? Was it possible that Hawke could leave him, with such words hanging between them, and still be determined to free him? He thought rapidly back over all their time together and realized, to his shame, that his sister had seen what he had not. Hawke had never given up on him before, no matter what happened between them. Hope and despair battled in his heart—he could not bear to have things left the way they were, but he feared too much for her life to allow her to continue to attempt to free him.

“We’ll see about that,” Varania snapped. “Stay there, or you will regret it.” She hurried out of the room, shutting the door behind her.


	18. Hawkeless

Varania was gone for a long time; an interminable time during which Fenris could only stand there and imagine his sister and the love of his life battling to the death on the streets of Minrathous. Hawke’s death, he was certain. No Tevinter Magister could lose here on their home ground. Perhaps Varania wouldn’t find her, though—perhaps she would attack the ship. Certainly they would have come in the Temptress. Bethany, Isabela, Varric, Hawke … Bianca. He imagined them in a ship on fire, being swept beneath the waves. How could he have been so foolish as to underestimate Varania again? How could he not have recognized what Varania had so easily, that once she had taken time to consider the situation Hawke would not give up on him? She had sworn that she would always come for him—he had conveniently forgotten that vow, hoping it would be subsumed under the weight of responsibility and good sense. But that sort of thinking was not Hawke’s way. It never had been.

He could not stand still. Under Esperanza’s watchful eye, he paced the room, muttering to himself. He needed to be out there, to be doing something … and here he was immured in this elegant room in this prison of an estate, and by his own hand, no less! No wonder Hawke had been able to walk away from him. He had underestimated her, as well, time after time.

The door opened, and he retreated to his “official” position, behind Varania’s desk and a foot to the left. Esperanza got to her feet and took position on the other side of the desk. Varania glanced at him as she entered the room, her eyes gleaming with suppressed mirth, and he felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. That look boded poorly for him and for those he loved.

Behind Varania three set-faced figures marched in, and Fenris’s heart pounded. What were they doing here? Bethany, who crossed her arms and fixed him with a look of burning anger; Isabela, whose golden eyes held disappointment as they fixed on his. They arranged themselves behind Varania’s guest chair, in positions facing those of Fenris and Esperanza. Varric was the third figure, his anger all the more palpable for the fact that he didn’t so much as glance in Fenris’s direction as he took the chair across from Varania’s desk. The chair was specifically smaller than usual to make the person who sat in it feel small, but it had the opposite effect on Varric. The dwarf commanded the room. A fourth person, whom Fenris recognized with surprise as Aveline’s young son Freddy, closed the door and leaned against it.

For once, Fenris was glad that he wasn’t allowed to speak. He didn’t think he could have formed coherent sentences from the random fragments of “how—“, “what—“, and “huh?” that filled his mind.

“We won’t beat around the bush, Magister,” Varric said. “Where is she?”

Varania sank gracefully into her chair. “I assume by ‘she’ you mean the Champion? How should I know?”

“You b—“ Bethany began, but she cut herself off, pressing her lips together and glaring more forcefully at Fenris than before.

“You expect us to believe the Champion could sneak in here and back out again without you knowing about it. I beg your pardon, Magister, but that is beneath your formidable reputation. And would be a surprising feat for Hawke. She was never much of a sneaker.” Varric smiled, leaning back into the chair. He was the only truly relaxed person in the room, and his confidence was disarming.

“Flattery is beneath you, Master Tethras.”

“I wouldn’t bother to ply you with cheap flattery. I know you—and your relations—too well for that.” Varric didn’t bother to glance at Fenris, but the implication was obvious.

“And you expect that, if I did know what had happened to your Champion, I would tell you? Why is that?”

“We would be pleased to take her back to Kirkwall, and to guarantee that she didn’t return here.”

“Perhaps I find her valuable.”

“You’re too smart to make that mistake. Putting these two together makes an orphan of their daughter. Sooner or later even your selfish, cowardly imbecile of a brother would have to think about his daughter. And if he and Hawke join forces, which they would do no matter how you tried to keep them apart, they would escape. Have no doubt about that.” He smiled at Varania. “A slave in the hand, after all …”

“You make an interesting point. Do you imagine me to be so careless as to allow those things to occur?”

“I would no sooner underestimate you than you, I’m sure, would underestimate Hawke and her influence on your slave.”

Fenris’s gaze had passed back and forth between his sister and the dwarf, fascinated by the volleys of carefully nuanced suggestions. Now his eyes rested on Varric, his brain finally catching on to what was being implied. “You do not know where Hawke is.”

“Look who just caught up,” Isabela said.

He didn’t look at her, staring at Varric harder, as if by the pressure of his gaze he could wrest answers from the dwarf. “How could you have lost her?” He had all but forgotten his sister and his subordinate position in the room in the burning desire to know where Hawke was.

“You bastard! You’re the one who left her. What right do you have to care about her now?” Bethany snapped. Her eyes were filled with tears. “I thought you loved her, but no one who loved my sister could have abandoned her that way.”

Fenris shook his head. “You do not understand.”

“I think we all understand everything we need to,” Varric said without looking up at him. “Now, Magister—“ But he didn’t have the chance to finish.

Isabela was suddenly in front of Fenris. He hadn’t seen her move. “What did you say to her?”

“When?”

“You know when. Don’t play stupid, not with me of all people. I talked her into coming here; I let her knock me out so she could sneak over here and see you. And you screwed it up. I want to know what you said to her.” Her words were low and dangerous, a tone Fenris had heard before but had never been directed at him. “Now.”

“I—“ He glanced in shame at Bethany, letting his gaze slide over Varric’s uncharacteristically hard face. He could see true dwarven Stone in that face, for the first time. “I told her that since I had broken my vow I was no longer her husband.”

“You son of a bitch. I can’t believe I stood up for you.” Isabela’s disappointed eyes were harder to bear than Bethany’s tears, Varric’s determined anger, or the amusement on Varania’s face.

“It was the only way,” he whispered to her. “To save her life.”

Isabela’s voice was equally soft. “She’ll eat her own heart out without you. You’re not saving anything; you’re dooming her to a long, slow death.”

Varania cut in before he could respond, taking back control of the conversation. “How poetic. So we are all clear—my slave spoke to this Champion of yours, he sent her away like a good boy, and she left.” 

“You want us to believe you didn’t do something to her after that?” Bethany asked, her voice strained.

“Master dwarf?” Varania asked.

It was the first hint of emotion Fenris had seen on Varric’s face. The dwarf believed him, and Varania, and truly did not know where Hawke was. Fear and anger boiled inside Fenris. “Where is she?” He found himself leaning over Varric’s chair, his hands white-knuckled on the armrests. “How did you fail to follow her? You, who know her better than anyone else in the world—how could you let her loose that way?”

“Elf, I owe you nothing. If you don’t get out of my face, Bianca and I will make sure your sister is short one slave.”

“Leto.” Varania’s voice was sharp with warning, but he ignored her.

“Who else knew you were in Minrathous?”

For such a large weapon, Bianca moved quickly. Her silver-tipped nose was pressed against his breastplate. “For the last time, I’m warning you—“

Fenris moved out of the way. He knew better than to antagonize Varric any further when Hawke’s safety was in question. “Who else, Varric?”

“No one,” Bethany said. “We kept it quiet.”

“Tomwise.” It was the first thing Freddy had said; Fenris had almost forgotten the boy was there. “Serah Fenris spoke to him, as did Kethali and I.”

“No. Tomwise has been our friend for twenty-five years. He would not have betrayed Hawke.” Fenris folded his arms over his chest. “Someone else must have known.”

“You do not believe your beloved Champion could simply have fallen into the river? Been captured by another Magister? Run away?” Varania asked mockingly. No one answered her.

“The blond,” Isabela said. “The barman at the inn said a blond man was asking after us. Barman’s an old friend, he didn’t say anything, but if this man found out where Hawke was going, he could have followed her.”

“Who does Hawke know who’s blond?” Bethany asked.

Fenris and Varric stared at each other, and the same conversation came to both of their minds at the same time. Fenris swore, and Varric muttered, “Sodding Chantry.”

“The Chantry? What do they have to do with it?” Bethany asked sharply.

“Back in Kirkwall, Donnic told us the Chantry had heard from a certain Templar about the elf’s lyrium powers.”

“Then why not take me instead of her?” Fenris whispered.

“Because you’re here, walled up in the Magister’s garden. Hawke, on the other hand …”

“Was unguarded and vulnerable.” Oh, how he wished he could take back the words he had said to her, kept her from leaving him in such a state. “To think, Hawke saved that bastard’s life.”

“Which bastard is that, exactly?” Isabela asked. “There have been so many.”

Varric answered, “Keran. He was taken hostage by blood mages. Hawke saved him, made it so he could go back to the Chantry. As a full Templar, too. That son-of-a-bitch. Later, he was one of the group who kidnapped her.”

“I remember him now. Nice pecs.” Isabela grinned, and Bethany frowned at her. “You think he’s back in the Chantry’s good graces and took Hawke to finally punish her for what Anders did?”

“Why does it matter why he took her?”

“I believe you are all jumping to conclusions,” Varania said before anyone could respond to Bethany’s question. “Because you thought of one blond man, you are certain he is the only one possible.”

They all exchanged looks. “Hate to say it, but the Magister’s got a point,” Varric said.

“We are wasting time here anyway. While we stand here speculating, Hawke is in danger. We must go at once to investigate.” Fenris pushed past Isabela, heading for the door, and then froze as a magic barrier appeared in front of him.

“Where do you think you’re going, Leto?” his sister asked.

“Yes, _Leto_ ,” Bethany said, bitterness heavy in her voice. “We don’t need you anyway.”

“If either of you think you can keep me from going to look for my—Hawke, you are sorely mistaken.”

There was silence in the room for a long moment, then Isabela moved to Fenris’s side. “I’m going to have to go with lanky and smouldering, here. We’re not leaving without him.”

“What?” Clearly Bethany hadn’t been briefed on this turn of events.

Freddy cleared his throat, looking hesitantly determined. “I would have to agree with the Captain. I couldn’t face Bianca if I went back to the ship without either of her parents.”

Fenris stared at the young man, his eyebrows flying up. Had this boy placed hands on his daughter?

“Steady, Papa,” Isabela whispered to him. “One problem at a time. And no, to what you’re thinking.”

Varania sighed, leaning back in her chair. “How tiresome. Have you cooked this story about the Champion up simply in order to free my slave?”

“Actually, no,” Varric said, “although it might have been a good idea. And I, for one, would have been happy to leave his traitorous ass here. But Rivaini and Scamp have a point; we owe it to the little Princess to bring someone back, and if this is all she’s got … she might as well have him. And Hawke wouldn’t—wherever she is, Hawke would want him free.”

“There seems to be a problem with your plan,” Varania said. She didn’t move, but the air thickened with her power.

“What if we promised to bring him back?” Bethany asked.

“Bethany!” Isabela looked shocked, and Varania laughed.

“You think I would trust you to do so?”

“I certainly would,” Bethany muttered, casting a defiant look at her lover.

Fenris turned and looked at his sister, meeting her eyes squarely. “It is my fault that this occurred. I intend to rectify the situation.”

“Have you not learned by now, little brother, that you cannot outwit me?”

It felt as though they were the only two in the room. He kept his gaze steady on hers. “You are right; I cannot. But if you do not let me leave this room, I will kill you. Or die in the attempt. It is the least I can offer Hawke after what I have put her through.”

“The very least,” he heard Varric mutter.

And then, to his utter shock, Varania nodded. “Very well, if that is your stance, you may go. Esperanza,” she called over her shoulder. “Go pack our things.”

“’Our’ … things?” Fenris repeated.

“Surely you do not think I would trust you to return without supervision. I am coming with you.”


	19. From Every Side

“I swear, if I have to stay on board this ship one more day,” Bianca said unsteadily to Kethali. The tension was so sharp she could barely stand still; even the comforting cool clasp of Kethali’s hand over hers couldn’t calm her. Tears trembled on her lashes and she blinked them angrily away. “What’s taking them so long?”

He squeezed her hand. “We have to trust them—they know what they’re doing.”

“I don’t even know why they brought me—no, wait, I do, too. It’s jail! They’re keeping me here so I won’t run away and try to find my parents on my own. My father left us, my mother went off after him, and I got locked up.” She swiped at the tears that could no longer be contained, trying to smile. “This seems so backward. I’m the teenager—aren’t I supposed to be the one going off and having to be chased?”

Kethali chuckled. “Maybe so.”

“I’m so scared.”

“I know.”

She went into his arms gladly, leaning her head on his shoulder, smelling the sharp, herbal scent of his curly hair. Bianca could practically feel his heart beating as he stroked her back, the sensation soothing and yet not, creating a pleasantly disturbing buzz under her skin. She lifted her head, looking into his eyes, her lips parting. Would he kiss her? Did she want him to?

“Captain ahoy!” came the cry from the crow’s nest high above them.

Bianca felt a pulse-pounding heat flush through her body, as though she had done something she ought to be ashamed of, and she jumped back, away from Kethali. She leaned on the rail, pretending it had only been eagerness that had made her jump and not the strange mixture of shame and excitement that still had her cheeks and ears feeling heated. As the boat came closer, she, too, could recognize Isabela, and Varric, Bethany, and Freddy. But there were three other figures in the longboat, all cloaked.

“Do you think those are your parents?” Kethali asked, his voice quiet and unruffled.

Could they be? Could this whole nightmare be over? “But who’s the third person, then?” She looked more closely, but couldn’t recognize anyone inside those concealing cloaks.

She and Kethali were waiting impatiently as the boat pulled up alongside. Isabela and Freddy leaped for the side, swarming up the ropes. Both took equal parts pride and delight in eschewing the ladder. Bethany and Varric both hung back, waiting to let the cloaked figures climb. The first one was agile, moving swiftly up the rope ladder despite the encumbrance of the cloak. Bianca only had time to notice that the second figure moved much more slowly and carefully before the first pushed back the hood of his cloak.

“Papa? Papa!”  
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
She was even more beautiful than his mind had pictured her. Browned by the sun, her muscles strengthened by the training Isabela had put her through—the little girl he had left behind looked very much like a woman. Fenris pushed the hood back from his face, unable to control his smile.

“Papa? Papa!” Bianca ran to him, but stopped as she reached him, looking up at his hair. Her eyes filled with tears, her hand reaching up to run over the white stubble, her lips soundlessly forming his name, just as her mother’s had.

Fenris felt tears prickle his own eyes, and he pulled his girl close against him, burying his face in her glossy black hair to hide the emotions he couldn’t suppress.

At last she pulled away. Fenris noticed that Varania and Esperanza were on the deck of the ship now, and Varania’s eyes were fixed on Bianca. If he could only keep them apart the whole voyage!  
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
“Papa, who is that?” Bianca was aware of the scrutiny on her, as well.

“I am your aunt, child. No doubt your father would have you believe I am an evil crone bent on his destruction, and through him, yours.” Her green eyes, so very like Papa’s, crinkled at Bianca. She didn’t look evil—but there was something about her that made Bianca wary, and it wasn’t just the tension she could feel in her father’s body when Varania spoke.

“Are you?” she asked boldly, and received a chuckle, again, so like Papa’s, in response.

“Possibly.”

“I’ll kill you if you try to hurt my father.”

“You are welcome to try.” The humor had faded, and Bianca felt a chill go through her at the cold glitter in the depths of those green eyes. Was this what enemies saw when they looked at her father?

“You will not speak to her.” Papa pushed Bianca behind him. He was so thin, so … old, suddenly. Of course, so was Varania.

“Excuse me, but shouldn’t we be thinking of how to find Serah Hawke?” Freddy was unusually serious standing in the midst of the tense group. “We think she was taken by the Chantry,” he said to Bianca.

“Taken? Taken how?” She looked up at her father, but he couldn’t meet her eyes.

“He sent her away.” Aunt Bethany was standing ramrod straight with her arms folded, her amber eyes boring into the side of Papa’s head. “He told her they weren’t married anymore.”

“What?” Bianca stared at him, too. “Why did you say that? Did you mean it? Where—what about me?”

“Bianca,” he whispered. “It is not as simple as … your aunt makes it out to be.”

Varania snorted. “Really. Where is the complicator here, Leto? You wished to send her away; you told her what you thought would make her go. Did you not?”

“Leto? Did you give him a new name?” Bianca asked.

“Hardly. That is his name. Fenris was the name given to him by his former master, Danarius.”

Shocked, Bianca turned to her father. “Is that true? You—your name is a slave name?”

“It is the name your mother called me. That is all that was important. To me, or to her.”

“How can that be? I don’t understand.”

“Retaining that name was the easy way out,” Varania said. “Like every other decision he has ever made.”

“That is not true!” Papa began, but he stopped, his words trailing off helplessly in the face of his sister’s laughter.

“When did you ever stand and fight, Leto?”

“I fought for you!”

“You swung your sword around at other slaves, I’ll give you that—but that sort of fighting was always easy for you, even before they gave you the chance to rip people’s hearts out with your bare hands. I am talking about real fighting, about standing beside someone and working together. You fought your little competition, you won your boon, and you walked off, a pampered, spoiled pet to the richest magister in Tevinter without a backward glance at the carnage you left behind.” Her voice was even, the words calm, but the savagery of her anger was undeniable.

“Did you do that, Papa? You left your sister?”

“I had her set free. Freedom, Bianca!”

“Freedom, yes, but with nothing to support ourselves with. Do you wish me to tell your tender child here how I had to support mother and myself?”

Bianca thought she had an idea, but it was clear everyone else had more than that from their pinched, unhappy faces.

“When else have you ever stood and fought for something you believed in—fought with more than your hands and your sword? Your Champion did all that fighting for you, and as soon as it appeared she was wearying of the fight, you left her.”

Papa’s face was ashen as he looked at Bianca with stricken eyes, but she backed away from him. Maybe her aunt was right.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
“You are a coward, Leto. You always have been. If your Champion’s life wasn’t in danger, you would still be standing in my office, shirking your responsibilities and drowning your free will in the solace of slavery’s mindless refusal to face the future.”

He could not deny the truth of it, not even when Varania leaned toward him, denouncing him again with a savage whisper of “Coward!”, because the others were standing there, even Bianca, agreeing with her. Isabela was at the wheel of the ship, and Freddy and Kethali looked as though they wished they were miles away from all these grown-ups and their embarrassing nonsense. But Bethany and Varric’s hard eyes were on him, judging him and finding him guilty, and Varania was triumphant, and Esperanza looked vaguely disdainful … and Bianca. Bianca was crying.

“You did that, didn’t you, Papa? You ran away from us. You left us all alone!”

“I left you with friends who would care for you,” he said, desperately trying to convince her, even though he was no longer convinced himself. He reached for her, but she turned away, finding Freddy next to her and burying her face in his chest. The boy put his arms around Fenris’s daughter, looking almost apologetically at Fenris over her shoulder.

“I … need to … go.” He pushed past his sister in his haste to get out of this circle of accusation.

“Just like always, eh, elf? Can’t think of anything that ever happened that you didn’t walk out on her. I knew when I married the two of you that it would end like this.”

“So why did you?”

“Because she needed you. Always has; still does. That’s why I came here.” Varric was very close now, looking up into Fenris’s face, and if he had ever discounted the dwarf because of his size, the black anger in Varric’s eyes would have made sure he never did so again. “And now, because of you, she is a captive, probably in the hands of one of the most vindictive, vicious factions in all of Thedas.” He lowered his voice, perhaps to keep Bianca from hearing him. “And mark my words, elf, if we do not find her safe and unharmed, Bianca Senior will end your sorry excuse of a life.” The dwarf pressed trembling lips together. “That is what I vowed that day, while the two of you were making yours.”

Fenris stared at the man in front of him, seeing what he never had before. “You love her.”

Varric’s eyes were hard. “No shit. Enough to stand by her both times you left, holding her hand. I’d be with her now if I could. I shouldn’t have let her go alone, and I’ll have to live with that. If we find her, I’ll give her back to you because that’s what she’ll need. And you? Will stay where I can see you.”

Bethany spoke from the gathering darkness. “What he said. You have hurt my sister for the last time.”

“I have no intention of hurting her again.”

“Really? So when I drag you back to Tevinter in chains, that won’t hurt her?” Varania smiled. “Because I will; make no mistake about that.”

“We will deal with that when the time comes,” Fenris said stiffly. He glanced from Bethany to Varric. “That goes for the two of you, as well. The important task before us is to get Hawke back. Nothing else matters in the face of that necessity. Can we agree on that?”

Varric nodded brusquely, and Bethany sighed. “Very well. For now.”

Fenris shoved his way past them and climbed up to the upper deck, leaving the rest of them behind. He stood next to Isabela, who cast him a sympathetic glance. “Are you certain you know how to get there?”

“If you were anyone else—or yourself under less pressure—I’d take that as an insult. And you know what I do to people who insult me.” There was an edge to her tone. “Anchors up!” she called, and the sailors leaped to begin winding the capstan. “Look, don’t let Bethany and Varric get to you. Hawke means a lot to them.”

“She means more to me.”

“Maybe you think so, but it doesn’t look that way from where they sit.” She glanced at him. “I get it. You wanted to do the noble, self-sacrificing thing. I think you’re an idiot, but I understand. They don’t.”

“And … Bianca?”

“She’s scared, Fenris. She lost her father, and then her mother, and now a lot of people she trusts are knocking her papa off his pedestal. Oh, and she’s a teenager, a bloody beautiful one, with two very good-looking boys dancing attendance on her.” Isabela chuckled. “That girl’s got quite a lot going on in her head. Wouldn’t want to be her.”

“Dancing attendance?”

“Don’t get all glowery; they’ve both been perfect gentlemen. But she could have either one at a snap of her fingers. On second thought, maybe I would want to be her.” She winked at him. “Now, the dockworker we talked to said Highever. It’s a long way around—I wonder why they didn’t go overland, myself.”

“Across the Imperium?”

“Yeah, okay, I get that. You know, that probably means they’re taking her to the Aeonar.”

“The Aeonar?”

“Mages’ prison. No one knows quite where it is. We might have to do some questioning. I love to question people.” She grinned.

“Perhaps we can do better than that. Can you catch their ship?”

“Ooh. Couple days head start, but I guarantee the Temptress is way faster than any cheap Chantry boat. Maybe we can.” She nodded at him reassuringly. “I’ll do my best. You just keep your temper, keep the arguments to a minimum … and go talk to your daughter. She needs you, even if she doesn’t say so.”

“Right. Thank you, Isabela.”

“Hey, I love Hawke, too. I just … have a little more perspective.”


	20. The Father-Daughter Dance

Hawke shifted uncomfortably. The chains were heavy on her, and her head felt muzzy and strange. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, but she felt more nauseous than hungry. The movement beneath her and the smell of salt water and tar told her she was still aboard a ship. Bound for where? The voice of the man who had taken her … No, it was lost in the fog that filled her brain. Fenris, she thought. Bianca. Varric. Where were they? She tried to think back to what had been happening before she was taken. Something wrong with Fenris, yes, but more than that. What was it?

The effort to remember exhausted her, and her attention wandered as she stared up at the ceiling of the cabin.

Voices intruded on her, and she lay listening to them idly.

“I’ve paid you for the voyage already. Not another copper!”

“You paid me to take a political prisoner.” The second voice had a familiar accent. Who spoke like that? Someone she knew, but the name wouldn’t come to her. “You did not tell me that prisoner was going to be the Champion of Kirkwall!”

‘Champion of Kirkwall’? That was her! Evelyn closed her eyes so she could focus on the conversation, fighting the fuzziness in her head.

“What difference does it make to you who you carry? It is not your job to ask questions.”

Damn it, she knew that voice. Where had she heard it before?

“You had an obligation to tell me.” The second voice was more subdued now; the first voice was making him back down. Evelyn wondered how—did he have a sword to the man’s throat? That’s what she would have done. She wished she had a sword now. A long, sharp sword …

The first voice cut in again, dragging her attention back to the conversation. “Quit your whining, Castillon. You’ve been paid more than generously, and the so-called Champion in there is nothing but an old woman. No one cares about her anymore.”

Castillon? That was a familiar name. It was connected to someone she knew. Who could it be?

There was dark laughter in Castillon’s voice when he responded. “You are very wrong about that. Having the Champion in chains on my ship is asking for serious trouble from someone very powerful; the owner of the second fastest ship in all the seas of Thedas. It is fortunate for you, Ser Templar, that you are on the only ship that is faster.”

“I’ll assume you know your own business.” He sighed. “Perhaps there could be a bonus once we reach our destination. Assuming we do so very quickly and without being hassled by this other ship.”

“Trust me, I have no wish to be caught by the _Temptress_ at any point. Far less so right now.”

Hawke wondered who the temptress was. Something about the word was nagging at her, but she was so tired from the strain of paying attention to the conversation. She let the motion of the ship beneath her lull her back into a deep sleep.  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Bianca tossed restlessly on the hammock she’d been relegated to. Her former cabin had been given over to her aunt Varania and to the strange, silent, glowering woman who accompanied her. No one thought it appropriate that she share a room with them; no one had been precisely enthusiastic about the idea that she share the captain’s cabin with Bethany and Isabela. There was no question of her sleeping with the crew, the way Freddy and Kethali were, and she had absolutely refused to share the same cabin as her father and Varric. No one had quite known where Orana slept until she showed them the small alcove in the hold, and Bianca had been allowed—told—to hang her hammock there.

She couldn’t quite understand Orana. The woman had been her parents’ housekeeper for the better part of two decades now, and yet she still kept herself to the background. She reminded Bianca of a mouse, hiding in the shadows, making herself small, trying to go unnoticed. Varric had said that it was because Orana had been a slave, but that made little sense to Bianca. Her father had been a slave—unbelievably, he was one now—and he had never made himself small.

She shifted again. No, no sleep tonight. She kept thinking of all the things everyone had said to Papa, the accusations and the threats. Of the way Papa had just stood there, looking like a prisoner with his shorn head, and taken it. Of the little smile on Varania’s face while it was all going on. Of the way Isabela had drawn herself away—if she disagreed, why had she not defended Papa?

Bianca leaped lightly off the hammock, sliding her feet into her shoes and making her way through the dark hold and up to the deck. The moon was full and white in the sky, surrounded by trailing wisps of clouds, and Bianca sank down on a pile of rope and looked up at it, wishing … she didn’t know what to wish for. For everything to make sense, maybe. Because nothing was the way she had expected it to be. All those years wondering about Kirkwall, about the friends her parents spoke of so fondly and the life that they had loved—she had wished they could stop running, give up those little houses they kept living in, and just go to Kirkwall. She’d thought everything would be better there. And it had been, those first few days. And then her father had left and her mother had … broken, and now her mother was Maker knew where and her father was no one she knew. Had she caused all this, by wanting too much? Was it her fault?

“Your heart is troubled.”

She nearly jumped out of her skin. “Kethali, you can’t sneak up on people that way!”

He smiled. “I thought your training meant no one would be able to sneak up on you.”

“I’m not training right now.”

“It doesn’t work that way, you know.” The second voice came from the timbers above her, and Freddy lowered his long body onto the deck in front of her. “In training or not, what you notice of your surroundings can make the difference between life and death.”

“What do you know about life and death?” she asked him derisively. “Protected there in your pristine white keep.”

“The mud of Darktown has covered many a noble … and even more of their sons. Often whether they wanted to go there or not. Have to know the risks so you can protect yourself.”

“The alienage is similar. As a mage, stealth is not my gift, but you have to develop some, and awareness, too, if you want to survive.” Kethali sighed. “I cannot put my talents down, even when I want to. Magic is with me everywhere. So, for those of your skills, are the shadows. They surround you, they hide you, but they are your responsibility, as well. Use them wisely.”

Bianca crossed her arms, glaring at the moon. She didn’t want a lecture. She just wanted to be left alone. She could be alone without paying attention if she wanted to. And now they were both here, too, which was confusing. They sparked such different responses in her; Kethali made her heart race and her skin tingle, his calmness exciting her, while Freddy sent heat through her, his strength inviting her in and his dexterous fingers even in the most casual touches awakening desires she only barely understood. When she saw each of them alone, she could consider giving in to the different sensations, but seeing them together made her feel guilty and confused. It was all the worse because they were such good friends. If there had been even a shadow of rivalry between them, Bianca would have felt less uncomfortable comparing them to each other.

A familiar deep voice came from the darkness. “If you do not mind, I need to speak with my daughter.”

A hot wave of irritation swept over her. Wasn’t anyone on this ship sleeping? If she wasn’t going to have time alone, she’d have been happy with either Kethali or Freddy for company, or both if she had to. But she wasn’t ready to face her father yet. Not while he still looked and felt and sounded like a stranger. She had to be able to put this person with his shorn hair and his air of uncertainty together with her father, the strong one, the one who had always been there for her and for her mother.

“Of course, serah,” Freddy said, and he disappeared into the darkness as easily and quietly as he had left it.

Kethali nodded, ducking out of the way, and they heard his soft footsteps down the ladder leading to the crew’s quarters.

“Bianca.”

“Papa.”

He came toward her, but she squirmed to the side, not looking at him. She felt more than heard the heavy sigh he breathed. He left her alone, leaning back against the railing instead. “You are angry with me.”

Bianca didn’t want to talk to him. She crossed her arms, squeezing herself farther down into the pile of ropes.

When it became clear she wasn’t going to answer, her father spoke again. “You have a right to be angry with me.”

“Well, thanks for your permission.” It was the most disrespectful thing she had ever said to him, and he actually winced. She should have felt badly about that, but she didn’t. Not at all.

“I should never have left you … or your mother.”

Disrespect felt pretty good. She thought she’d try some more. “You think?”

“Watch your tone, young lady. I am still your father.”

She was off the ropes and standing in front of him before she had time to think. “No, you’re not! You’re some slave named Leto, because that’s who you chose to be!”

He blinked, looking away. “I am no different than I was.”

“How can you say that? That woman owns you. She could tell you to kill me and you’d have to do what she said.” Bianca wasn’t certain if that was true, but it sounded dramatic.

And it certainly got a reaction from her father. His face tightened, one hand shooting out to catch her painfully by the shoulder. “That will never happen again. Never. Do you understand me?” He shook her, then released her, pushing her backward. His eyes glittered in the darkness.

“Again? Have you killed people because you were told to?”

“Yes. Often,” he said in a hard voice like a block of ice. No humor lightened it, no affection warmed it.

“People you cared about?”

“Once. Almost twice.”

“What stopped you the second time?”

His eyes were on the single figure standing at the wheel at the other end of the ship. “Isabela stopped me. Or, rather, she stopped my master.”

“What would have happened if she hadn’t?”

“I might have killed your mother.”

“Because your master told you to?” Bianca shivered, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Yes. And now you know what I am, what I was made to do.” He looked down at her. Something soft and loving shone in his green eyes—then with a swift movement of his head he looked away, and the tenderness was gone. “Perhaps you are right, perhaps I am no father to you. Perhaps … you are better off without me.”

And he was gone, leaving her there alone.

“Papa?” she called, but too softly to be heard, even by his sharp ears. Tears flooded her eyes, blurring her vision, and she dropped her head onto the railing. After a moment, warm hands closed on her arms and she was pulled back against a strong, broad chest, cradled gently as she wept.  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Fenris watched from the shadows as his daughter cried into Freddy’s chest. While he would have preferred not to know that his conversation with Bianca had been witnessed by another, he had been on ships enough to know that true privacy aboard one simply wasn’t possible. And if someone were going to be listening, he was glad that it had been Aveline’s son and not Merrill’s.

He was sick to his stomach at what he had told his daughter, what he had said to her … but it was true, nonetheless. She was better off without him, always had been. She would learn to stand on her own, as her mother had before her; she would grow strong. And he would save Hawke and return to the Imperium with his sister.

He should have known that she would appear just as he thought of her. Varania’s voice was practically in his ear, almost as though it was in his head.

“You are harsh with her. Just as you have always been with those who cared for you. Is there no room for pity in your heart?”

“This is none of your concern.”

“Of course not. You have always considered whatever you did none of my concern … but now it is, because now I own you, and every moment of your day is my concern.” The dark, malicious triumph in her voice made him want to turn around and thrust his fist into her heart. “She is a lovely girl, your daughter. She would fetch a very handsome price on the markets.”

He just managed to pull his hand back before it sank into her chest. “Speak of my daughter in that manner again and I will rip your heart out of your chest and feed it to the sharks.”

Varania smiled, not at all intimated, and certainly not frightened. “You just disavowed her. You have nothing to say about what might happen to her now. Or hadn’t that occurred to you? Stubborn, impulsive Leto, always making grand statements and never considering what the full consequences might be. You may not remember the hasty words of your past … but I intend to make sure that you remember these, and that you regret them. One day, Leto, you will be on your knees begging me to take your memories. I look forward to it.”

With a swish of her skirts, she was gone, leaving him there frightened and trembling and alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discovered I had mistakenly uploaded a bunch of chapters out of order. This might make more sense now!


	21. So Close and Yet So Far

Noises outside the cabin woke Evelyn from another long sleep. She stirred, moaning as the chains shifted. Her muscles were so stiff from the constant inaction they throbbed with pain.

Running feet went past her cabin, and she heard shouts from above her. She strained to discern the words, but they wouldn’t come to her. The groggy sleepiness threatened to take her over again, and she fought it, hating that her head was so cloudy and her consciousness so slippery. What was that noise? Had she heard it before long ago? A heavy rolling sound, like big wheels moving. More shouts, these more terse than the others. “Load!” “Aim!” “Fire!” and then the unmistakable sound of a cannon being fired. The ship was going into battle! Evelyn tried to lift her legs, but the heavy chains kept her from moving them far. Should the opposing ship counterattack—worse, should the opposing ship win, and sink the ship she was on—she was in serious danger of being drowned.

Her head was pounding with fear and the effects of whatever drug she was being given. A vague hope surface that maybe the ship being attacked was trying to rescue her. But no, surely not. No one knew where she was. Evelyn rolled over as far as she could, pressing her face against the pillow, trying to stave off both the waves of grogginess that threatened to steal her consciousness away again and the crushing fear that pressed in on her.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Several hours earlier Isabela had roused the entire company of the Temptress with a whoop of glee, explaining, as they gathered around her, that the sailor in the crow’s nest had caught sight of sails ahead. They were rapidly closing with the other ship.

No one budged from the deck as Isabela scrambled around the rigging, gauging every tiny shift in the wind, measuring the distance between the ships constantly, and calling down minute adjustments of course to the helmsman. Every eye was glued to the horizon, where slowly a speck appeared, looking ever more like a ship.

When Isabela dropped down in the midst of the tense group for a moment, Freddy spoke up. “Captain, when will the other ship see us?”

She glanced at him. “Good thought, kid. They can see us now.”

“What if they’re not looking for us?” Bianca asked.

“They will be, Princess. Anyone who knows to take your mother knows we won’t let her go without a fight.”

At the rail, ignored by one and all, Fenris clenched his teeth. Was he imagining the pointedness of Varric’s comment, jabbing him sharply in the back? He should have been leading the attempt to recover Hawke. Damn it, she shouldn’t be in danger at all, because he never should have left her. Feeling eyes on him, he looked around and met Varania’s gaze. She was perfectly still and quiet, but her mirth at his expense was evident even across the ship.

Dragging his eyes away from his sister, Fenris focused on the dot on the horizon, drawing closer bit by bit. His hands closed around the edge of the railing, gripping the wood tightly as though he could physically pull the two ships closer together.

“Oh, that’s a nice one,” Isabela said from above him. “Not as nice as my girl, of course,” she added, patting the rigging fondly, “but close.” She frowned, leaning forward, dangling precariously from the ropes as she strained to look more closely. “That bastard!”

“What?” Fenris asked immediately. “Who is it?”

“Castillon.”

From behind him came a choked gurgling sound. Looking around, Fenris saw that Esperanza was on her feet, her fists clenched at her sides. Her fingers were digging into her palms hard enough to draw blood. So Esperanza knew Castillon, then? That was interesting.

Isabela clearly had not noticed Esperanza’s agitation, but Varania had, her green eyes sharp as she studied her slave.

“I’ll kill him this time, I swear,” Isabela said grimly.

“’Bela, you know you can’t do that.” Bethany called from below. “We have a strict no-killing-people-we’re-related-to policy! Lucky for you,” she muttered, not so softly, in Fenris’s direction.

“Can I torture him a lot? I’d like to torture him. Grandma would want me to.”

“Your Grandma would give you torture tips, are you kidding?” Bethany asked. For Bianca’s benefit, she added, “Isabela’s grandmother is scary, and Castillon doesn’t visit often enough.”

Fenris looked at Esperanza again. She had sunk back down on her haunches, but her eyes were still burning as she stared at Isabela. Should he warn the pirate? he wondered. If Esperanza hated Castillon as much as she hated Varania, she could be quite dangerous to anyone she thought was connected to him. Then again, Esperanza had never harmed anyone that he knew of, unless ordered to do so by Varania. He would keep an eye on her, he promised himself. Besides, Isabela had taken care of herself for many years. And there were bigger things to worry about. He looked back across the water at the other ship.

Isabela jumped down to the deck. “We’re gaining. We’re gaining fast, actually.”

“You do not sound pleased.”

“Castillon’s ship is really nice. She should be able to outrun us, and I don’t say that about a lot of ships.”

“She doesn’t say it about any, actually,” Bethany put in.

“It sounds as though that should be good for us, then,” Kethali said, looking puzzled. “Aren’t we lucky to be catching up?”

Freddy shook his head. “I think she means that if we’re catching up, it’s because the captain of the other ship is letting us.”

Fenris gripped the ropes, staring across the water, willing the ship to go faster. What did he care if Castillon was letting them—Oh. He turned around as Isabela began barking orders to her sailors to man the cannons. Images flashed through Fenris’s mind, and before he could think, he shouted, “Stop!”

Isabela’s narrowed eyes, as dangerous as he’d ever seen them, met his. “No one gives orders on my ship but me, no matter how much they care about the cargo in the other vessel.”

“Cargo!” Bianca shouted, indignant, but Isabela and Fenris ignored her.

“Isabela, think about what you are doing,” Fenris began urgently.

Bethany cut him off. “I knew it! I knew you never cared for my sister. Too much of a coward to go after her, Fenris? Even now?”

Varric hesitated, then put himself between Fenris and Isabela.

“Do not be stupid, dwarf,” Fenris said. “He is allowing us to catch him. Do you think he would do that if he thought there was the slightest chance we could take that ship?”

“Bent on saving your own skin, elf?”

“Think!” Fenris shouted, exasperated with the lot of them. “Do you think Hawke is free on that ship? No doubt she is imprisoned. What will happen to her if we go into battle and are victorious? What if we sink that ship? Who will reach her before she goes under with it?”

Isabela paused with a cannonball in her hands, her eyes on him, as realization dawned.

“And if we are not victorious, what then? We find ourselves crippled in the water, or worse, and unable to follow Castillon’s ship to its destination, losing time every moment as he pulls away laughing with Hawke firmly in his clutches.”

“Castillon doesn’t want Hawke,” Isabela said, but absently, as she considered what Fenris had said.

“No, but the Chantry does.”

“I’m sure they paid him well,” Varric said. He was looking at Fenris speculatively.

A resounding boom reached them, and, turning, Fenris could see the smoke from the open port on the other ship. “Isabela!”

“Yeah, I see it. Keep your hair on.”

“You’re going to fire back at them, right?” Bianca asked tearfully.

“If she does that, she may injure your mother. We cannot take that risk,” Fenris said.

Isabela sighed, staring across the ocean at her brother’s ship. “No. No, we can’t. Good point,” she said to Fenris. Under her breath, she muttered, “The Temptress could take her,” but she set about changing the sails to back away.

“Will they come after us?” Bethany asked.

“I doubt it. He’s got cargo, he’ll deliver it.” Isabela cast an apologetic glance at Bianca. “Sorry.”

Fenris gazed after the other ship, judging the distance. Perhaps he should have waited until the ships were closer together. He imagined himself leaping into the water and swimming across, climbing the side of the other ship … but any heroics of that nature were more likely to get himself, or Hawke, or both, killed, than they were to end in anyone’s freedom. It was torment to be so close and yet be unable to do anything that would not make her situation worse.

“You’ve bought yourself a few more days away from my sister’s side. I wonder that you bothered to come along at all,” Bethany said sourly at his elbow.

He turned, reluctantly, from the sight of the ship slowly but inexorably bearing his love away from him and glared at her sister. “You and I will speak below. Now.”

“Fine,” she snapped.

In the spacious cabin she shared with Isabela, Bethany turned to glare at him. “What can you possibly have to say?”

“You have never trusted me. That is fair—I have never trusted you, either. But one thing I have never doubted is your devotion to your sister. I understand that your anger toward me now is a function of that devotion—“

“Don’t try to tell me what I think! Typical of you, always thinking you’re so much smarter than everyone else. Look what you’ve done now!”

“I know what I have done. I live with it every day.”

“Do you? Kowtowing to that sister of yours, letting her run your life and make your decisions—seems like it must feel pretty cushy,” Bethany spat. “Relieves you of your responsibilities nicely, doesn’t it?” Folding her arms over her chest, she shook her head. “I always knew you would leave her again. I should have … I should never have let you join her in the first place. From the moment she met you …” She drew a long, shaky breath. “I ought to have known it would end like this.”

“It is to my eternal shame that I left her. I thought there was no other choice—I thought she would be where others could care for her needs, when I no longer could. Those years, fleeing from the bounty hunters of the Imperium, watching the joy and the life leeching from her bit by bit … Where were you?”

“Where was I?” Bethany’s eyes widened. “What do I have to do with it?”

“Could you not have helped her? You of all people must have known what that life was like for her, the memories it brought up in her. You could have talked to her, understood her memories and her pain in a way that I simply was not capable of. I never understood the importance of a home—Hawke was all the home I ever wanted.” His voice was growing ragged in his own ears, and he turned his face away from Hawke’s sister.

“She never asked.”

“She would not have. When did you ever see your sister ask anyone for anything? Not even me. Her way was always to attack the problem. And when she could not … She didn’t know how to run.”

Bethany crossed her arms, looking defiant, but he saw something in her eyes that said she had heard him. “I … I was not the one who promised to stay with her forever. I had my own life to live.”

“How much of her life did she give up for you? Do you know how hard she tried to secure your release from the Gallows? The first twenty-five years of her life she spent in your service, protecting you. Or had you forgotten that?” Bethany remained stubbornly silent, and Fenris went on, “I owed your sister everything. It is my failing that I underestimated the strength of her reaction to my departure, and I will have to, somehow, find a way to make that up to her. But you owe her as much, and as far as I can tell you have taken no responsibility for your own failing in supporting her.”

The mage opened her mouth, then closed it again, and her silence conceded his point.

Fenris nodded. “So perhaps we can cease hurting my daughter with all this squabbling, and table our differences while we search for Hawke?”

Slowly, Hawke’s sister nodded. “I still don’t trust you.”

“Nor I you. But until Hawke is safe, that matters little. And once she is returned to us, it will matter less still.”

A small smile crossed Bethany’s face. “Well put.”  
___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
A collective groan rose from the sailors outside Hawke’s cabin. She lifted her head from the pillow with some difficulty, straining to hear. It sounded as though the single cannon shot was all the battle there would be; the other ship had withdrawn. Disappointment closed over Evelyn’s head, cold as the icy sea. Had that been her people, coming for her? Had they given up now? Surely … surely they wouldn’t leave her here. A hot tear trickled out of the corner of her eye and onto the pillow below her. She closed her eyes, feeling lost and alone.

The motion of the ship and the resumption of the usual sounds around the cabin lulled her, and she felt herself drifting off to sleep. When she woke, she promised herself, she would do something about these chains. She would try to escape. When she woke …


	22. On a Familiar Shore

Evelyn was still feeling woozy when she woke to the familiar bustle of a ship putting in to port. Which port? she wondered. She had been taken in … Minrathous, yes, and they had been traveling for— She couldn’t remember how long. Didn’t really know. The cabin got little daylight, so it had been hard to mark the passage of time, and she had been drifting in and out of consciousness for so long. It felt like weeks, but could have been days. Maybe only a day? No, for a day’s journey why would they have taken a ship?

She couldn’t concentrate. She lay, letting herself be lulled by the sounds of movement outside her cabin, until she was suddenly shocked into full consciousness by the cabin door crashing open. When people had entered over the course of the voyage, it had been quietly, keeping to the shadows, speaking in soft voices that didn’t alarm her. There had been some kind of food that she had swallowed sleepily.

Now, there were three Templars hulking in the doorway. “Up you go, Champion.”

Evelyn tried to get up. She should fight them, she thought vaguely. But the chains were heavy on her, weighing her down, and she had to be hauled to her feet by one Templar, and forcibly kept from falling, her legs wobbly from lying in the bunk so long, by the other two. They dragged her along between them out onto the deck of the ship where the sun dazzled her eyes. As she blinked into the brightness, a shadow blocked the sun—another Templar, but this one with his helmet off.

“Recognize me?”

She squinted at him, but between the light and the disorientation she felt … “No.” Her voice was rusty with disuse, and she thought how much she would like a glass of water.

“Really? How disappointing. Then again, it has been a long time. Perhaps you will remember later, as we get closer to our destination.”

“Wh—“ She had to clear her throat in order to speak. “Where are we going?”

“Someplace safe, don’t worry. No one will find you.”

Why didn’t she want someone to find her? Hawke shook her head. No, of course she wanted someone to find her. Who? Fenris. Yes, Fenris would find her. He had before, when— Suddenly the pieces began to fall into place. Templars taking her captive, Templars who were working with mages … a face glimpsed in memory. A face she remembered from earlier, when he had been taken by mages …

“Keran.”

He seemed startled, whether by the name or by the sudden strength in her voice.

“Very good, Champion.”

“The Chantry,” she said. “What does the Chantry want with me?”

He looked around at the sailors, busy in their docking chores, studiously not listening. But of course, they had their ears wide open for every word.

“That is a question for another time. For now, let’s just get moving.”

Hawke was ashamed that the two Templars on either side of her were practically pulling her along. Her legs were weak and the chains heavy. She had little hope of escaping in her current condition. She shuffled down the gangplank with her head down, too focused on the energy required to put one foot in front of the other to be thinking of her surroundings.

One of the Templars nearly ran into a dockworker, who put down the heavy barrel he was carrying on his shoulder. “’Ere, now, watch your step!”

The third Templar, who was following behind Hawke, drew his sword and stood in front of the dockworker, who took a hasty step back.

“Sorry, ser. Didn’t mean to—eh, you folk have a nice day!” The dockworker took off in the opposite direction.

Hawke did her best to let her head hang as though she hadn’t noticed anything, but a small flame had lit inside her at the dockworker’s voice, with its unmistakable Fereldan accent. Ferelden! Despite all the years in Kirkwall and in the countries to the north of it, Ferelden still meant “home” to her. Maybe it was her imagination, but knowing her boots were scraping across Fereldan planks laid over Fereldan soil made her feel stronger, more alert than she had been since … since they left the lemon grove in Antiva. Why hadn’t they ever come back here in their runnings? Fenris had thought they’d be too easy to spot in Ferelden. Evelyn had always privately imagined that he didn’t want to deal with Fereldan winters.

That was all water under the bridge. Today, she was in Ferelden, a prisoner of the Chantry, being taken who knew where. Who knew indeed? she thought. The Chantry and Ferelden had never gotten along, and King Alistair’s reign had widened the split between them. Templars were permitted, but looked on with suspicion. Or so she’d heard. It had been so long since she’d talked to anyone from Ferelden or paid much attention to the greater politics of Thedas. All sorts of things might have happened that Hawke hadn’t heard about.

She tried to surreptitiously glance at the people as she went by, to take glimpses of her surroundings to see where they were. But one set of docks was much like another, and a seacoast town was a seacoast town. The only Fereldan port she’d ever been in was Gwaren, and this didn’t feel like Gwaren … but really, almost thirty years after passing hastily through a small port, desperate to get out of the country in the face of the Blight, surrounded by other people just as desperate, how could one expect to remember how a place felt? It would have to be enough that this was Ferelden, and if it was Ferelden, maybe she would find someone who could help her escape the Chantry. Maybe it would be easier for someone to find her.

“You! Move faster!” one of the Templars barked at her, and she tried to move her feet more quickly.

A man in a uniform, possibly a constable, blocked their way up the path toward the area where carriages waited. One of them was certainly the Chantry’s—Hawke could see the sunburst painted on the side.

“My good man,” the Templar on the left said, “we need to move this prisoner to the coach before she gets free. Can’t be blamed for what might happen if she does.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to see some authorization.”

“That is no trouble at all.” Keran’s voice came from somewhere behind Hawke’s shoulder, smooth and friendly and official. He handed the constable some papers. “We’re transferring the prisoner from Nevarra.”

Nevarra? Hawke cleared her throat. Could she speak up now, say that they were lying? No, the glimpse she got of the constable’s round red face did not indicate that he’d be receptive to such a thing.

“Apostate, is she?”

“Maybe. You’ll want to keep your distance, at any rate,” Keran said.

The constable backed up, handing the papers back. “Proceed.”

“Thank you, ser. Always a pleasure.”

Hawke felt pressure on her shoulders as the two Templars flanking her hustled her forward. She stumbled at the increase in their pace and nearly fell, and they hauled her up by her elbows, essentially carrying her to the waiting carriage. Once inside, the shackles on her legs were attached to rings bolted into the floor, and her hands were clasped in manacles that hung from the ceiling. They weren’t taking any chances.

Keran climbed in opposite her. “Those are magic-inhibiting,” he said, nodding at the manacles. “Probably not necessary in your case, but why take chances? Your apostate father may have handed more down to you than we thought.”

“You think I’m a mage? That’s why you’ve taken me?” Her voice was hoarse and she thought longingly of a cool glass of water.

“Well, no, not as such.” He leaned back, resting the ankle of one leg casually on the knee of the other. “We’re very interested in you, Champion. You came into Kirkwall and all but took over the town; you could have been Viscountess if you’d wanted to be. You did this with no patronage from your superiors, without the support of the Chantry, and without being at the head of any major criminal organization. Do you expect us to believe you did all that without the assistance of a demon?”

Put that way, she sounded fairly impressive. She wished she felt impressive. “What kind of demon?”

He leaped on the question, his blue eyes glittering. “Oh, you know there are different kinds?”

“I have probably fought more demons than you have. I’m well aware of what they look like and how to fight them.”

“Excellent. We’ll have to try that.”

Hawke felt a stab of alarm. Were they going to make her fight demons? She hoped they’d allow her to recondition before that, but was very much afraid that they would not. There was silence in the carriage. Hawke wanted to look out the windows, to see if she could orient herself based on her surroundings, but they were blacked out. Beyond the carriage walls she could hear the sounds of a town, shouting and horses’ neighs and wheels on cobblestones, but it was all muted. The carriage was solidly built, apparently. With nothing to look at, she wanted to keep Keran talking. It helped her fight off the lingering effects of whatever they had drugged her with on the voyage and could offer her information that might aid in an escape attempt. “You would summon demons for me to fight?”

“It can’t hurt. As we both know, even non-mages can be hosts to a demon.” Keran raised his eyebrows, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

She narrowed her eyes. “Anders tested you.”

“Me? Oh, I’m clean. I kept my body pure and untouched. Except by the whores at the Blooming Rose, of course.” He grinned now, his perfect white teeth shining. “But the Chantry doesn’t care about that, not really. They say they do, but they know what it’s like to watch mages day after day and never be able to touch.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Come now, Serah Hawke. With your taste for magical elves? You would be drooling over the mages right along with us. Perhaps you will.”

“Do you intend to make me a Templar?”

“Of course not. You’re much too old.” Keran smiled. “But we will be giving you lyrium once we arrive at our destination. I will be curious to see if decades of exposure have increased or lowered your resistance.”

“Decades of--? Oh.” Fenris’s markings, she realized. Actually, that was an interesting question … but she still had no desire to be their test nug.

“Especially if you already have latent powers.”

“Does that happen? Latent powers, that is.”

“Not so far, but we assume it must.”

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The manacles were beginning to chafe her wrists. “You didn’t come all the way to the Imperium for me just to see if I had latent powers or a tolerance for lyrium. What do you want from me, Keran?”

“You talk like you fight—with a big blunt sword, trying to slice through the conversation and get to the meat. That’s not the way it’s done among polite people.”

“Polite people like Templars? That’s a description of your order I’ve never heard before.”

“You spent too much time listening to your pet abomination. Did he turn your head, Champion, talk you out of the way of the light? Well, that will be resolved. Your role in the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry, and in all the further Chantry bombings that followed it, will be determined. And then we will decide your punishment.” His eyes were bright, and sweat had formed on his upper lip. He fumbled in his skirt, his gloved hand emerging with a vial of blue liquid. Uncorking it with his teeth, he threw it down his throat. He wiped his face off with the heavy fabric of his skirt.

Hawke closed her eyes, pretending to sleep, to cover how frightened she was. If she had needed more proof that Keran was out of his mind, the suddenness and intensity of his need for the lyrium had provided it. How was she going to get away from these people?


	23. Answers and Questions

Fenris looked around with interest as the sailors worked to pull the Temptress into her berth in Highever harbor. So this was Ferelden. It was sunny today, and certainly appeared more open than Kirkwall. No walls, no bronze statues of slaves in pain. It was cleaner than Kirkwall’s docks, too, although the same odors of fish and tar and salt permeated the air.

“What do you think?” he asked Bianca, who came to lean against the rail next to him. She was still cautious with him, and that pained him. It hadn’t been so long ago that he was her best friend, and he felt the loss of that trust.

“This is Ferelden?” She shrugged. “Doesn’t look that different from anywhere else.”

“I suppose not.”

Bethany joined them on Bianca’s other side. “It’s home, though. Makes all the difference.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Bianca said. “It’s been so long since I had a home.”

The bitterness hung in the air for a moment, then Bethany responded, “We didn’t, either. Our parents dragged us from one part of Ferelden to another, always a few steps ahead of the Templars. So while I think of Ferelden as my home, there’s no particular part of it I can point to and say, ‘yes, there’s where I came from.’ I think that’s why your mother never really cared to come back.”

“She’s here now, though, right?”

“Oh, she’s here, little dumpling.” Isabela’s voice came from the rigging above them. “That’s Castillon’s ship over there. Quiet, though. He’s already unloaded.”

“He’s waiting for you,” Bethany said, a warning in her voice. “Don’t give him an excuse this time, love.”

“Give him an excuse? Oh, that’s a good one.” Isabela laughed. “He knows what he did.”

“When do we board his ship, then?” Fenris asked.

“Sooner the better.”

“I’m going,” Bianca announced. Her arms were folded across her chest and she glared with determination at her aunt and her father.

Bethany looked from Isabela to Fenris and then back to Bianca, and shrugged. “I’ll stay here, then, if the two of you think you can keep Isabela in line.”

“She will behave,” Fenris promised, with a grim look at the pirate.

“None of you ever let me have any fun.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be along as well. Bianca and I will make sure everything goes smoothly,” Varric assured Bethany.

“Oh, yes, you make me feel so much better.”

Varania and Esperanza were below; Orana was in the galley doing laundry—the steamy scent of it made Fenris miss home. Laundry had always been his job. Perhaps that was the kind of thing Hawke had been looking for: those touches of familiarity that made a person feel as though they belonged somewhere. He had always found those in her, and had secretly been somewhat affronted that he and Bianca were not enough to make Hawke feel that anywhere they were was home. But now he felt he had been lacking in understanding. He felt a galvanizing, desperate need to find her, to apologize, and he turned to Isabela, sharply barking, “What are we waiting for?”

She looked surprised, then understanding, which she quickly masked with amusement. “Keep your hair on. Castillon’s not going anywhere. His sails aren’t set right.” 

“Well, let’s not give him a chance to change that,” Fenris snapped, leading the way down the gangplank. He hadn’t missed the wistful looks on both Freddy and Kethali’s faces, but he was in no mood to babysit at the moment. He would have his answers from Castillon if he had to wring them from his tongue until they dripped like saliva.

Bianca hurried after him, with Isabela and Varric bringing up the relaxed rear. Neither of them seemed to be in any great hurry, which was perhaps why the entire motion of the docks slowed to watch their progress. No one paid attention to Fenris—even an exotic elf was less noticeable if he moved at everyone else’s pace. But all eyes were pinned to the busty pirate and the hairy-chested dwarf. No doubt, Fenris thought cynically, neither of them would have to sleep alone tonight, unless they chose to. It occurred to him that he had never known Varric to sleep with anyone, figuratively or literally. Surely he must.

He winced, mentally berating himself once again for having started this whole mess. He could cheerfully have gone his whole life without having had to consider Varric’s sexual escapades, or lack thereof.

A burly sailor barred the gangplank, meaty arms crossed over his chest. “If you had business aboard, I’d have known about it, my friend,” he said in a thick Rivaini accent.

“Your supposition is false. Get out of my way.” Fenris could see the sailor considering the odds of his thick arms and broad chest against the slim figure of an aging elf, and decided to give him something else to think about. He activated the lyrium markings and without giving the man a chance to react, sank his hand deep inside the sailor’s chest and squeezed the bare heart. He had been told this sensation was extremely disturbing, and so it proved. The sailor gasped and stepped aside, falling off the gangplank as he tried to regain his equilibrium.

“Father!” Bianca breathed, wide-eyed.

“I see you haven’t lost your touch,” Isabela said, smirking, as she leaped past him and over the side of the ship, hollering as she did so, “Francisco!”

The sailors all stopped what they were doing and turned to look at her, wide-eyed. She grasped one by the ear. “Find Castillon. Tell him I expected him to be bloody waiting for me, and if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll get his sorry ass on deck ten minutes ago.”

“Y-yes’m!”

The sailor disappeared. In moments, an elegantly graying head appeared at the top of the stairs, seeking and finding Isabela with a smile. “Ah, there you are. I expected you yesterday. Is the Temptress slowing down in her old age?”

“Make another crack about my girl and I’ll tell Granny. She’ll show you who’s slowing down,” Isabela said, crossing her arms.

Fenris tried to wait while they danced around each other. He truly did. But he had seen this stand-off before, and he had no time for the elegant tango Isabela and Castillon preferred to go through before they got down to serious information-sharing. “Where is Hawke?” he demanded.

Castillon’s eyes flicked to Fenris, and the smile disappeared from his face. “I remember you. Hawke’s marido. Where were you when the Champion was taken? I would not have thought the Templars could manage to subdue her so easily.”

The idea of Hawke subdued, and the many meanings that word could take in this context, caused bile to rise in Fenris’s throat. He swallowed hard against it.

Varric jumped in while Fenris struggled to regain control of his voice. “Doesn’t matter how she was taken. What matters is where.”

“You southerners are so blunt in your discussions. I admit, I am far from finding it charming.” Castillon looked at Bianca, who shrank away from his gaze. “But, speaking of charming … Come over here, my beauty, and let us discuss your terms.”

“Francisco, this is Bianca Hawke. Daughter of the Champion, niece of my Bethany. You lay a finger on her, and you’ll have ice spells in places you very much wish not to have frozen.” Isabela used her serious voice, and Castillon took a step backward.

“My mistake, then.” He kept his gaze on Bianca. “I, too, have a daughter, perhaps a bit older than you are. It would pain me very much to see her venturing into the world on such a journey. To you, I will tell what I know, which is very little. The Champion was not ill-treated on the journey; mostly, they kept her drugged and asleep. Which is not the best circumstance, but there are many that would have been worse. When we docked here, she was beginning to show signs of life again, and I do not envy them her reaction when she finds out where they are taking her.”

“The Aeonar?” Isabela asked.

Castillon looked surprised. “If you already know, why ask?”

“I didn’t; just guessed.”

“It was a good guess. They did not tell me in so many words, you understand, but … I have my ways of gathering information. They are indeed taking her to the Aeonar, the mages’ prison,” he added for Bianca’s sake. “They left two days ago, in wagons that were fortified against magic and reinforced against attacks from outside. They traveled south, but my spies were not able to follow them past the gates of the city, so I do not know if they turned off the road, or where.”

“You didn’t manage to find out the location of the Aeonar?”

“I was startled to find that it actually exists. One hears rumors, of course, but I always thought it a mere myth. Had I believed it existed, I would have thought it would have been a prime target for one of the mages’ uprisings.”

“According to Bethany, they don’t know where it is,” Isabela said. “Shrouded in mystery. Mist, too, for all I know.”

“Who’s in charge in Highever?” Varric asked. “Surely whoever that is would have some idea if there was a mage prison in or near their holdings.”

“Fergus Cousland is the Teyrn here. Quite the stud, once upon a time.” Isabela winked.

Castillon chuckled. “My little sister. How proud her family is of her … exploits.”

“Granny taught me everything I know, before Mother sold me off for a goat and a handful of coins. You all bloody well should be proud.”

“We are wasting time,” Fenris snapped. “We need to follow them, to catch up. We need to find Hawke.”

“Haste makes waste,” Varric said. “Rushing off just gets people into trouble. How many times have I had to tell you and Hawke that? I should tattoo it on my chest.”

“No one would see it unless you shaved off your chest hair, and that would be a tragedy of epic proportions.” Isabela winked at him.

Castillon looked at Fenris sympathetically. “What your friend says has merit. The Chantry’s wagons are well guarded against attacks from outside, and they know you are following them. Attacking them now would be foolhardy.” A shadow crossed his face. “Were she my woman, I would be unable to listen to reason as well. But I beg you will learn from my error—I cost my woman her life, long ago, chasing after slavers impetuously. Had I been more clever, perhaps …” He shrugged eloquently.

“Thank you,” Fenris said, nodding courteously. He understood the point, but it did little to ease the pounding desire to be doing something.

“Next time I see you, you owe me for taking this commission for the Chantry,” Isabela said. “I have to think you could have been more helpful.”

Castillon spread his hands out before him. “Profit, honor, family, the code of the sea, the threats of the Chantry—on the scale of decision-making, sometimes one weighs higher than the others. You are welcome to attempt to enact your rev—“ He broke off, staring over Isabela’s shoulder, his face paling.

Fenris turned, as well, and was nearly as shocked as Castillon. Esperanza stood there, her clothing soaked and clinging to her body, her eyes fixed on Castillon with a wild look, her wet hair plastered to her face.

“Esperanza,” Castillon said, the word almost a moan.


	24. More Complicated Than It Seems

As Esperanza’s muscles bunched, Fenris readied himself to stop her, but quickly realized his intervention wouldn’t be necessary as she cast herself into Castillon’s arms. Tears flowed down her face as she pressed kisses to his cheeks and forehead and eyes.

Behind Fenris, Varric said, “I think I speak for all of us when I say … huh?”

Castillon took Esperanza’s face in his hands, looking her over anxiously. “Esperanza, my love. Say something! Speak to me in your beautiful voice. I have heard it in my dreams, so many times.”

Esperanza tore herself out of his embrace, looking at Fenris with wide, desperate eyes.

“She cannot,” Fenris said. He felt the other man’s pain as if it were his own. If Hawke was damaged, mutilated, as Esperanza had been, he knew he would be heartbroken and enraged for her. “Her tongue has been cut out.”

“No. Oh, no. My love.” Castillon pulled Esperanza back into his arms, cradling her close. Fenris looked away, not wanting to intrude on what was clearly a long-imagined private moment. As he did so, he caught sight of the Temptress, across the harbor. If Esperanza was here … He considered what she must have done to win her freedom from his sister.

Hardly aware of what he was doing, he bolted from the ship, running across the docks, leaping over bales and dodging stevedores. He regained the deck of the Temptress and looked around him in a panic. There! At the bow of the ship he saw his sister’s artificially red hair, and Bethany’s graying head bent over Varania’s prone body. Kethali was there, as well, looking grave, and Orana with a small stack of clean white bandages.

Bethany looked up as he approached. “She’ll live, in case you’re wondering.”

Fenris breathed a sigh of relief.

“I would have thought you’d be upset. Didn’t Esperanza do you a favor?” Bethany’s tone was cutting as she turned her head back to the gaping wound in Varania’s belly. From what Fenris could see, Esperanza had done the thorough, frenzied job one might have imagined she would.

“No,” he said, holding back his irritation at Bethany’s sharp words. “The very last thing I want is for Varania to die. Sh—“ No. If there were soft feelings inside him toward his sister, after all her manipulations, he would not admit to them. “She is Hawke and Bianca’s protection. If Varania dies, I am again at the mercy of every magister in Tevinter, and those I lo—those who are close to me are targets to be used as leverage against me.”

“Well, of course. It’s all about protecting your precious lyrium-filled hide, isn’t it?”

“It is not. Why can you not understand that as long as I was free, Hawke was in danger? This cursed lyrium draws the magisters as honey draws flies. If I could rip it out myself and fling it at them, I would do so—but they don’t just want the lyrium, they want me, and the powers it gives me. They come for me with no care for who might get in their way, and I am not strong enough to protect my family from the entire Imperium!” There. His shame, thrown to the winds, told to all those who already thought little of him. Now they would know the true extent to which he had failed the woman he loved, that he could neither keep her safe with him or let her go.

Kethali was looking at him, unblinking. “Have you never thought to ask for help? My mother would have offered you shelter, safe haven, whatever assistance was in her power. I know that everyone else aboard this ship would have done so as well.”

Fenris was saved from whatever reply he might have made by the arrival of Bianca, who clutched at his arm with a gasp of horror as she saw Varania’s wounds.  
“Aunt Bethany, you won’t let her die, will you? I … I hope she doesn’t.”

It had not occurred to Fenris that Varania held within her the secrets of Bianca’s past, as well as his own. He had grown used to seeing his daughter as her own person, part of a family unit created from himself and Hawke, with no other antecedents necessary, but from the hungry look in his daughter’s green eyes, he could see that Bianca did not see herself that way. He made a vow that when Varania recovered, he would attempt to draw her out, to see if any kind of familial relationship could be made to grow again amidst the stone.

Sounds of a scuffle could be heard from the docks. He saw that Isabela was holding Castillon back with everything she had.

“Not on my ship, you don’t. No one kills anyone on my ship but me.”

“You do not understand. Do you see what was done to my Esperanza? She had a voice to rival Andraste’s own, beautiful and enchanting, and this bitch cut out her tongue! Maker knows what else she forced my beautiful one to do during her time of bondage. And all the time I thought Esperanza was dead.” Castillon’s voice broke, and Fenris felt his own pain throb in sympathy. If he reached Hawke and she was hurt … none would stop him from taking his vengeance.

“This won’t help. What’s done is done. Killing Varania won’t bring Esperanza’s tongue back, or buy you back the time you lost.” As Isabela looked up into her brother’s face, for the first time Fenris saw the resemblance between them, and the love beneath the mutual antagonism. “Take Esperanza home to Granny. You never know, Granny might be able to do something for her. Stranger things have happened.”

Castillon shivered. “You make a good point.” He put his hands on Isabela’s head, leaning his forehead on them. “May your sails be full and your course true, sister.”

“And may the demons of the deep steer clear of your path.”

The tall pirate looked up at Fenris. Their eyes met, and Castillon bowed his head slightly. Fenris returned the gesture, watching as Castillon turned and hurried down the dock toward his own ship.

On the bow of the Temptress, Varania gasped and sighed, her eyes opening. They sought Fenris immediately. “Is she dead?” she asked.

“No. She has returned home, where you will not follow. You have done enough.”

“Mm.” There was no response to this, Varania’s eyes closing again as Bethany’s hand passed over them.

The mage got to her feet. “She’ll sleep for a while now. Freddy, Kethali, give me a hand carrying her down to her cabin?” 

Isabela came aboard the ship, muttering. “She’s lucky I don’t kill her myself. You’re lucky I don’t.”

“I am?” Fenris didn’t see what he had to do with it.

“You think I’d kill off your only sister? Your only chance to find out about your memories? Oh, I know you play tough like you don’t care, but you do. You care about her; you like her.”

“Do not be ridiculous.”

“I am many things, my brooding friend, but ridiculous isn’t one of them. I’ve seen you and your sister together. You go on like Francisco and I do—underneath all the antagonism, you enjoy having someone around who can meet you jibe for jibe and keep coming back for more. She feels it, too, in case you were wondering, which is no doubt why you still have your tongue.” Isabela frowned in the direction of the cabins. “I won’t kill her, but I’ll see to it that she gets marked up for what she did to Castillon’s woman.”

Fenris couldn’t argue with that—his sister deserved punishment for the crimes against Esperanza, not to mention the torment of her other slaves, no less crippling because it was mental rather than physical. He hated to admit to the truth of Isabela’s accusation, but he couldn’t deny it, either. Something within him recognized his kinship with Varania, something felt comfortable in her presence, natural. Had she died, even in as deserved an attack as Esperanza’s, Fenris would have mourned her. The Leto that lay buried inside him would have mourned her.

He shivered in the sunlight, feeling more than ever like two disconnected people. He had lived all these years denying his longing to know who he had been before the markings, where he had come from, but there was something missing, a black hole in his mind where his memories should have been, and the need to fill that hole was almost as strong as the need to reach Hawke.

“We need to know where we are going,” he said, turning abruptly toward the others. “How do we find the location of this prison?”

“We could capture a Templar and torture him until he talks,” Isabela suggested.

“You think the rank and file of the Templars know where this place is?” Varric asked. “I doubt it.”

“Still, we’d have tortured a Templar. That’s a good day’s work in itself.”

Varric chuckled. “Spoken like a true mage’s spouse.”

“We could try the Teyrn. Haven’t seen him in ages.” Isabela sighed dramatically. “Wouldn’t mind seeing how he looks now.”

“Rivaini, do you ever think of anything other than sex and the sea?” She grinned, and Varric laughed. “Never mind. Foolish question.”

“Do the two of you mind?” Fenris snapped.

“Never. Didn’t Hawke tell you all the trouble she had house-breaking us? Seriously, Broody, you know as well as I do that Hawke would be bantering here with us. Keeping up your sense of humor is the best way to make it through a stressful time.” When Fenris merely glared at him, Varric sighed. “Of course, that would require you to have a sense of humor to begin with. What do you think, Rivaini, would the Teyrn remember you?”

“He’d probably remember me, but I don’t know if he’d see me based on those memories. I might have purloined a few things on my way out.”

“Having you in jail for decades-old theft doesn’t seem like a good way to get started, no,” Varric agreed.

Freddy had come up a moment ago, no longer needed in the cabin. He stepped forward. “I suspect he’d see me. I can just say I’m here on a diplomatic mission. I’ve met Teyrn Fergus a time or two, and I think he’d be willing to help the Champion, if he can.”

The boy went up a few notches in Fenris’s estimation. “A good plan. Let’s go.”

“I’ll stay here, if you don’t mind; keep an eye on the patient, start getting my girl shipshape again.” Isabela patted the mainmast fondly.

So it was the four of them—Fenris, Bianca, Freddy, and Varric—who presented themselves at Highever Castle and were ushered into the Teyrn’s presence after a brief wait. The Teyrn himself rose to greet Freddy, clasping the boy’s hand. He was a tall man, with dark hair gone to grey in a distinguished fashion and the physique of a man who had known many battles. He limped a little, and a dashing scar ran diagonally across his cheek to the corner of his mouth. “Freddy, isn’t it?” he said heartily. “I see your mother didn’t accompany you this trip—quite a step for a young man, his first diplomatic mission.”

“Well, sir, it isn’t … exactly,” Freddy said. His flashing good humor wasn’t in evidence right now; it was easy to see Donnic’s firm hand in his serious demeanor and Aveline’s forcefulness in the respect with which he viewed the Teyrn. At Fergus’s puzzled frown, Freddy went on, “You see, we’re on a bit of a rescue mission. This is Varric Tethras, and Fenris and Bianca, husband and daughter of Evelyn Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall.”

“There’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.” The Teyrn reached out, and Fenris stared at his hand for a moment before realized the man meant for him to shake it. With some difficulty, he shook himself out of the slave mentality that had been so easy to fall back into and remembered the dignity and respect accorded to him as a free man. Fergus said, “Welcome to Ferelden. Do I take it that the Champion is the one being rescued?” He bowed to Bianca, and shook hands with Varric in his turn.

Varric said, “Hawke’s been captured by the Templars. We’ve got information that says she’s being taken to the Aeonar.”

Fergus sat down on the edge of his chair, as though his legs had given way beneath him. “The Aeonar. Highever’s greatest shame. If there was any way to attack that place without putting Ferelden in the path of an Exalted March, I’d have done it a long time ago.”

“So you know where it is?” Fenris asked, stepping eagerly toward the Teyrn.

“No.” Fergus sighed. “They’re very good at covering their tracks. We’ve had people follow them, we’ve tried to determine their location through the tax rolls, we’ve sent explorers. To the west of here, there’s a chain of mountains between the land and the sea, and somewhere in those mountains there’s a settlement that seems to be run by the Chantry. The Aeonar should be back there, somewhere, but no one I’ve sent has come back with information. Several of them never came back at all, and of course, I could hardly ask the Chantry what happened to them.”

A stifled sob came from behind Fenris, and he turned to see Bianca with her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking. He drew her to him, holding her. Between sobs, she gasped, “We’ll never find her!”

Fergus Cousland got up from his chair, coming toward the crying girl, and put his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll get my maps, Miss Bianca, and I will tell you everything I know. Any resources Highever can offer you will be at your disposal. If there is a way, we will find her.”

“What about the Revered Mother in Highever?” Freddy asked, taking his eyes off Bianca with difficulty. “Would she know?”

“No. Mother Glynis is a reasonable woman and a supporter of mage reform, and all the influence I can bring to bear has only just been enough to keep her from being reassigned somewhere less prominent. The Chantry wouldn’t take the risk of letting her know where the Aeonar is.” Fergus looked at Fenris sympathetically. “I think you should prepare yourself for … anything, really. The Aeonar’s reputation is not a pretty one; I’ve never heard of anyone being taken there who has been seen again.” He winced at fresh sobs from Bianca. “I am sorry to be so blunt, but I believe it’s better to be honest with you from the start than let you walk in with hope that is not warranted.”

“You think we should just give up?” Varric bristled.

“No, I’m not saying that. I’ve heard many things about you, Ser Tethras, and your team, and about the strength and resilience of the Champion.” He didn’t mention that those stories were from a number of years ago, but they all knew how long it had been since they’d been an effective fighting force. “If anyone can find a way, you can. Even more, someone must, and I can’t do so officially. Ferelden, and indeed, all of Thedas, will owe you a debt if you can locate the Aeonar and give us any indication at all of its defenses.”

“But in that task, we’re ultimately on our own.” Varric sighed. “Some things never change.”

It mattered little to Fenris. Let the Chantry have its prison if it wanted; his goal was to rescue Hawke, not to accomplish some type of lasting change in all of Thedas. Hawke had been the one with big dreams of changing the world—and over time the world had eroded those dreams with its constant stream of needs. As far as Fenris was concerned, Hawke had done her part to make the world a better place, and Thedas owed her much better than she had been given.

Fergus and Varric were bent over a map now, muttering to each other, and Freddy looked over their shoulders with serious eyes. He was a responsible young man, that one, a credit to his parents, far less heedless and impulsive than he had seemed at first.

Bianca pulled herself away from her father, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Are you all right?” he asked her. 

“Do I look all right? How can you be so calm, when he’s just said we’re never going to see Mother again?”

Fenris put his hands on his daughter’s slender shoulders, looking deep into her eyes, so like his own. “That is not going to happen. We are going to find your mother, and she will be well.”

“How can you know that? You can’t possibly know that.”

“I know it because there is no other option that I can live with. If I thought otherwise … I would be of no use to her.”

Bianca shook her head. Her eyes were old beyond their years as she said, “No, Papa. The world doesn’t work that way. I would have thought you’d have learned that by now.” She shrugged his hands off her and moved to join the others at the map.


	25. Chantry Prison Blues

Hawke had to hand it to the Templars—they knew how to sap a person’s will. First, lay in an obscenely comfortable mattress, a soft pillow, and piles of downy warm blankets, so the subject had no desire to rise from the comfort of the bed into the chill of the unheated cell. Then add atmosphere. The wind whistling around the high tower, the sense of utter isolation from anything or anyone familiar, and oh, yes, the screams. The screams that started as soon as the sun fell and lasted all night long, so that all one wanted to do was curl up under pile of toasty blankets and forget the horrors one couldn’t see in dreams of faraway loved ones. Never mind that their faces were growing dimmer in your mind.

After the first day, she noticed something interesting, however: they weren’t drugging her any longer. Energy was coursing through her limbs again, even though the food was minimal at best. On the second morning, when the screams stopped and the sun struggled through the mists to touch her barred window with its fingertips, Hawke tossed back the warm covers and got out of bed, wincing as her stocking-clad feet hit the cold stones. She wished for more clothes. They had left her a thin tunic and leggings that didn’t stop the chill in the air. Yet another reason to stay in bed under the covers.

Gritting her teeth with determination, she began a slow series of movements. Her muscle tone was practically nonexistent after all this time; she’d need to put a lot of effort into reconditioning herself.

She finished a round of sit-ups, deciding that was enough for one day. It wouldn’t do to push her muscles too hard and pull something. Getting to her feet, she stretched a bit and then walked around the narrow cell as much as she could for a cool-down. Once she was done, she eyed the comfortable bed longingly. Later, she told herself. It wasn’t just her body that needed reconditioning. Her mind felt sluggish, too.

Standing in the middle of the room, she began reciting poetry. Gradually, as she recited, she lost track of what she was saying and found herself reliving, rewriting, her last argument with Fenris. She made some fairly persuasive points, if she did say so herself. How dare that broody bastard not be there to hear her and admit she had outtalked him?

Hawke sighed. Clearly she was going to have to keep working on her focus.

She moved closer to the window. On her tiptoes, she could just barely clear the lower sill, getting a glimpse of the outside world. If only she could climb the wall and see where she was. But then, she had no one to communicate her whereabouts to, so what would be the point? The bars were too close together to fit through, even if she could get up there.

A chill draft blew through the cell. Where had that come from? She wrapped her arms around herself, looking longingly at the bed, piled high with the fluffy blankets.

It occurred to her that the prison, which had been alive with screams during the night, was absolutely, utterly silent in the daylight. It was hard to decide which was more eerie.

That was it; she’d done enough. Gratefully, she sank into the comfortable mattress and pulled the blankets up around her, curling up on her side, facing the wall, and imagining Fenris there, holding her. Never mind the fact that, even if she were somehow set free of this unimaginable place, he would still be out of her reach. If she had to be kept here, there was no reason to deal with that unpleasant little piece of reality at the same time.

She was nearly asleep when she heard something, deafening in the silence. Footsteps. Distant at first, then coming closer. Were they coming toward her? Hawke sprang from bed, using her fingers to comb her hair, wishing for pins to put it up in the familiar bun. Even without a mirror, she could tell that her current dishabille, complete with grey-streaked hair falling around her shoulders, was something far less than imposing.

The footsteps stopped in front of her door. Were they bringing food? She was surprisingly not that hungry, and left with the consideration of whether it was better to eat to keep up her strength or to avoid whatever food they gave her as much as she could in order to keep from being drugged again. It was nice having her mind back, even if there was nothing so far to use it on.

The door swung open, and she stood straight and tall, prepared for anything, she told herself.

Keran came in, smiling at her. “I see you’re out of bed. It’s surprising how many aren’t, even on the first day. Comfortable, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are.”

“That was my idea, you know. I said, ‘why not give our guests something comfortable to sleep on?’. Amazing how it saps the will.”

“Guests? I don’t think that’s the word I would choose.” Hawke refused to contemplate the potential sapping of her will, although Keran’s dispassionate comment chilled her as much as the silence had.

“Choose being the operative word. You use yours, I’ll use mine. But come, we’re late.”

“Late for what?”

Keran was studying her, his head cocked to the side. “I think I won’t bind you. You’re too intelligent to think you could get very far if you ran, and if you try something, it’ll be a valuable lesson for you.”

Hawke let that one alone. He was right, there was little point in fighting and trying to get away, especially since she had no idea where she was. She’d see what they wanted from her, give some thought to how she could figure out where she was, and then go from there. Always in the back of her mind was the idea that Varric might have tracked her somehow, and that maybe he was coming for her even now. Far-fetched the idea might be, but she couldn’t let go of it. If she lost faith in Varric, who was left to count on?

She walked with Keran down the stone halls, her stockings feeling strange on the rough stone floors. Her toes were cold, and she kept stubbing them on jutting pieces of masonry.

“Too bad we can’t give you any shoes. Only soft clothing, as you can see, and none too much of that. For everyone’s safety—we can’t have you harming yourself.”

“I could always rip up the blankets, if I wanted to hang myself.”

Keran chuckled. “Try it sometime. You’ll find it’s harder than you think.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Keeping track of the turnings and twistings of the halls was nearly impossible. Most of them were entirely closed in, so there were no windows to pay attention to. The sconces that held the candles were uniform, no way to mark any one particular one in her memory. Still, it was a nice puzzle and it felt good to stretch her brain.

Keran’s blue eyes were on her all too often, and Hawke felt uncomfortably as though he knew what enjoyment she was getting from the simple exercise of paying attention to where they walked. She wished she could hide that from him, but it was already too late.

At last he stopped in front of a door. He swigged down a bottle of lyrium, then took a stance and performed some type of movement. Hawke could practically feel the air ripple, and the door came open. “Only a Templar can open the door,” he said. “Just in case you entertain any thoughts of fleeing.”

“I find thoughts of fleeing very entertaining,” Hawke said, preceding Keran into the room as urged. It seemed innocuous enough; a single bare-walled room with two chairs. She took the one in the center of the room while Keran took the other, leaning comfortably back against the wall.

“Now, let’s talk about the destruction of the Kirkwall chantry.”

“What is it you hope to gain by interrogating me, Keran? I’ll tell you everything I know and it’s still not going to do you any good.”

“I find that hard to believe. Nonetheless, it’s what I wish to talk about.”

“You have to know what happened, Keran. We were near the Gallows at the time, all of us there.”

“Except your mage friend.”

“Except Anders, yes. And if I’d known what Anders was going to do, I’d have killed him myself before he had the chance.” Hawke glanced down at her hands. “I take responsibility for protecting him all those years; but the clinic he ran in Darktown saved the lives of a lot of people. It seemed a safe risk to let him live.”

“Safe risk? Is there such a thing?”

“You sitting in here alone with me strikes me as such.”

Keran gave a small smile. “A month from now, possibly, but you’re not conditioned at the moment, and I am. Tell me about the conspiracy to take down the Chantry.”

“There wasn’t one.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You and your people plotted. Templars died all over Thedas when the Circles rose up against us!” Keran was on his feet now, his voice shrill in her ears.

“I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“What about the Circle at Starkhaven? You let those mages go free!”

“I did not!” Hawke stood up, too, outraged. “That woman Grace tried to kill me—with your collusion, may I add. I sent her back to the Circle, where Thrask decided to use her as the linch-pin in some plot to bring mages and Templars together. He paid for that mistake with his life. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“You let it all happen, and then you ran off to live happily ever after with your knife-ear lover.” Keran’s voice rose to a crescendo, and they stood staring at one another, breathing heavily.

At last, Hawke shook her head, sitting back down. “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“We’ll just see about that. A session with a blood mage ought to bring out your secrets.” Keran narrowed his eyes. “In the guise of that elf of yours, perhaps.”

“Don’t.” Hawke knew she should keep quiet, but the idea of seeing Fenris here and knowing it couldn’t be him … she was afraid she wasn’t strong enough for it. “He wouldn’t come; he’s a slave in Tevinter. You know that—you were the one who caught me there. I’d never fall for that.”

“Maybe.” He looked unconvinced. “There are other ways to make you talk.” He came toward her, looming over her, his eyes glittering.

“Lay a finger on me and I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.”

“You’re a big talker, Champion. But we both know you couldn’t fight a gnat right now.”

He was right. Evelyn braced herself, trying to think ahead and decide what she would do if he attempted to hurt her.

Just then the door opened. Keran jumped away from her as a figure came through the door. The man was tall and slender, his hair greyed. The skin was stretched taut over his face. Hawke’s head snapped back in shock as she recognized him.

“Cullen?” 

“Serah Hawke.” He looked at Keran, and the younger man stepped hastily away, returning to his chair.

“Cullen, what are you doing here?”

“What else does one do with an aging Templar? You hide him away where he can do no good. Or harm, for that matter.”

“Can’t you?”

“Do harm?” Cullen sighed. “No, not really. No more than is already being done.”

“What’s that they say, if you’re not part of the solution you’re part of the problem?”

“Well, of course I am. I’ve always been part of the problem. But by the time I learned that, it was already too late to change. And part of me doesn’t want to.” He stared over Hawke’s shoulder. “If you’d seen what I’ve seen … no, setting mages free with no supervision is not the solution. You should know that as well as I do, Hawke.”

“I do know that,” she said testily. “I haven’t had anything to do with the problems the Chantry has had. I went into exile, fleeing from your people, remember?”

His eyes cleared, and he put a hand on her shoulder. “Yes. Yes, I remember.”

“Will you tell them that and get them to let me go?”

“Just … be a good girl, Hawke. Don’t give them any trouble.” He turned, his shoulders hunched, and left the room. Chilled, Hawke looked after him. Any relief she might have felt when he came in was gone; clearly, there was no help to be expected from that quarter. Although Keran hadn’t moved the whole time Cullen had been in the room. Was Cullen in charge? Was there some reason Keran had hung back? She left the room in response to a curt gesture from Keran, walking with him back to her cell. She barely noticed the numbness in her cold toes until she was able to climb back into that comfortable bed and tuck her feet under the warm covers. A meal was waiting for her, and she ate, reasoning that keeping up her strength was worth chancing being drugged again, and once she was done, bored and more frightened than she cared to admit, she conjured up Fenris in her imagination again and carried on a conversation with him until she grew warm enough to sleep.


	26. Plan of Attack

The spacious captain’s cabin of the _Temptress_ felt crowded and close with all these people inside it. Fenris wished to jump up and pace the small confines, but Isabela had already yelled at him to sit down, claiming he was making her nervous. They were all clustered around the long table she kept her maps on, studying Highever and its environs and endeavoring to make a plan.

Fenris had a plan: Find the nearest Templar and ‘talk’ him into taking them where Hawke was. He had voiced this idea and been loudly talked down, the others claiming that a random Templar was unlikely to know the location of the Aeonar, and to take one who didn’t know where they were looking for would alert the others, potentially endangering Hawke. Fenris didn’t entirely disagree with this point of view, but logic was lost in his consuming need to find her.

Varric was saying, “So if we outfit ourselves and head toward the mountains here to the west, we should come to that village the Teyrn was talking about. What’s it called?”

Freddy said, “Pleasanton.”

“Strange name. A bit too banal,” Varania commented. All eyes turned to her—she interjected into their conversations so rarely, although she was always listening.

“What do you think,” Kethali suggested seriously, “could it be intentionally banal, to avoid notice?”

“Could be.” Varric made a dot on the map where the village should be.

“I think you’re all forgetting something,” Isabela said.

“Just one thing?”

“A couple, then,” she allowed, frowning at Varric over the interruption. “First, there are two mages in our party—“

“Three,” Varania put in.

Isabela did a double-take at the mage, then shrugged, clearly leaving the implications of that comment for later. “Fine. Three mages, and an elf inlaid with the Templars’ favorite candy. We won’t even be able to get close before they pick us off. One by one, if they’re smart. Not to mention that Castillon said they knew we were after them, and we have the actions of his ship to prove it. They’ll be expecting us.”

There was no doubt she was correct. Everyone was silent, shifting a bit in their seats and carefully not looking at either Fenris or Bianca. Fenris snuck a glance at his daughter, who appeared to be holding up surprisingly well. She was pale, and held herself stiffly upright, betraying the tight control she was attempting to hold herself in, but there were no tears or other signs of panic. He wished Hawke could see their girl now—she would be so proud.

“I’ll go ahead as a scout,” Freddy volunteered into the silence.

“I was about to say the same thing,” Orana said in a small voice. “They would not be expecting me, and few people pay attention to a single elf.”

“No.” Varric’s voice was uncharacteristically hard. He cleared his throat as everyone turned to look at him. “It’s too dangerous for someone who isn’t trained in combat.”

“I will go ahead as a scout,” Fenris said flatly. He paid no attention to the rapid exchange of glances among Isabela, Varric, and Bethany, continuing, “Perhaps my lyrium will be an attraction, but I am trained in remaining unobtrusive despite it, and among magisters, who are far more daunting than Templars.”

“Papa, you can’t! You’ll be taken.” Bianca was on her feet, her wide green eyes imploring.

He took her hands in his, marveling at the calluses that had appeared on them in the short time he’d been away. She must have been training to some purpose, he thought with relief. He was glad to know she’d have a chance of defending herself against an attacker, and just as glad that his daughter was learning hard work from people who knew what the term meant. “I must,” he said gently. “It is, after all, my fault that she is there.” He didn’t glance away at the others, not needing their agreement. “It is my task to go for her.”

“What if they catch you? What if they—“ She stopped. Her lip was trembling, her eyes wet with unshed tears.

“I do not believe they will want to kill me. I suspect they would prefer to study me, should I be captured. These make me rather unique in Thedas,” he said, waving his hand to display the markings there.

“What about me?”

He stood now, pulling her against him. Resting his cheek against her hair, he whispered softly, for her ears only, “You are the greatest gift of my life. If I thought you still needed me at your side, guiding you, I would not have left you in the first place. But you are practically grown now, able to learn how to take care of yourself, able to understand what needs to be done, able to stand on your own.” He moved backward, looking down into her eyes. “Your mother is being held by one of the most powerful organizations in all of Thedas—she has no chance of escaping on her own. I have failed in my duty to her, I have broken my promises to her. Even if I were not the most logical choice to go to her aid, I would still need to go, to begin to atone for the mistakes I’ve made.”

“What difference will it make,” Bianca whispered, “if you just have to turn around and go back to Tevinter as a slave to your own sister again?”

It was a good point, and Varania’s eyes, which Fenris met over Bianca’s head, glinted in triumphant amusement. “That is a topic for after we have your mother back safe and sound again,” he told his daughter.

“Then let’s get back on the current topic,” Varric said, clearing his throat and adjusting his chair with a loud scrape. “I agree, the elf should go ahead. Someone needs to go with him, though.”

“I will,” Orana said. When Varric appeared to be ready to object again, she shook her head, her jaw taking on a stubborn set. “No one will notice a female elf, and I don’t think the Chantry would suspect me to be a member of the Champion’s party. Or take me seriously if they did,” she added with an impish smile. “I’ll go separately from Messere Fenris, but I can keep an eye on him, as he’ll be far more conspicuous than I will be.”

“She makes a good point,” Isabela said, and Varric agreed, though with obvious reluctance.

“If Fenris and Orana go first, who comes after them?” Bethany asked. “I assume we should all be there eventually—a raid on the Aeonar will require all of our abilities.”

“I worry about you mages so close to that place.” Isabela reached for her lover’s hand, squeezing it tightly.

“What of you?” Fenris asked his sister. “Will you aid us? You have no love for the White Chantry.”

Varania smiled. “I admit, the idea has some temptations. Of course, a Tevinter magister imprisoned in the Aeonar would no doubt be a temptation for the Templars, and I certainly have no desire to court that fate.” The room was silent, and she chuckled. “I see I’m alone in that emotion. Nonetheless,” she went on more briskly, “I will assist, if only to return to the Imperium as soon as possible.”

Fenris didn’t choose to contemplate the consequences of her words. There was much to do before he had to consider his ultimate fate. Perhaps he would die in the attempt to rescue Hawke and would not have to worry further about his own future. There was some comfort in that thought, he admitted, assuming that the others would complete the rescue. Perhaps in the Fade he would glimpse his old friend Sebastian, although no doubt the other man would sit far closer to the Maker’s side than Fenris could ever hope to come.

“Broody’s at it again. Can we get a move on before he’s got us all dead and burnt?” Varric rustled some papers.

“Right.” Isabela looked around her wistfully. “I suppose I’ll have to leave the refitting to the crew. They know what they’re doing.” She looked doubtful, though, and Bethany squeezed her hand.

“You know they do; you trained them yourself.”

“Still,” Isabela grumbled.

“So, Rivaini volunteers to go next.”

“Kethali should probably go with her. As the youngest mage, it’s best if he’s with the most experienced fighter,” Bethany said.

“I’ll go with them, too,” Bianca announced. Her lower lip jutted out mulishly, daring anyone to disagree with her. “I want to be there when we find Mother.”

After some glances exchanged with the others, Isabela shrugged. “Fine with me.”

Privately, Fenris intended to have Evelyn safe and sound before their daughter could put herself in danger. “Very well.”

They determined that Bethany and Freddy would form the third party, and Varric and Varania would bring up the rear, after Varric had coordinated with Fergus Cousland for whatever assistance the Teyrn could provide. The dwarf was no doubt considering what types of stories he could glean from a Tevinter magister, Fenris thought with some amusement … until it occurred to him that the dwarf would no doubt garner some stories that included Fenris. Or, rather, Leto. His stomach churned as he considered that possibility. He wasn’t certain he wanted Varric knowing about his past—but then again, someone should. Other than Varania herself, that is.

“We appear to have a plan, then.” He looked around at the assemblage, all of whom nodded. Their expressions ranged from Isabela’s gleeful appearance of martial delight to Bianca’s red-eyed fear. Fenris himself was relieved to be getting past this seemingly interminable voyage of recrimination and anger and have something he could do again. Soon, he vowed to the image of Evelyn he carried in his memory. Soon.


	27. All Too Easy

They hadn’t bothered with horses; they’d left Highever separately and each made their own way to the village Teyrn Fergus suspected of being a front for the Chantry, in case anyone was following them. Orana carried a basket filled with cheap ribbons and laces, selling them along the road as she went. Fenris kept off the roads, traveling roughly in parallel with her, but hidden as well as possible from prying eyes. Heavily cloaked, as well—a necessity, given his unusual appearance, but equally welcome due to the temperature, which was cold and getting colder. What type of person wanted to live in a country so chilled? he thought irritably.

Instinctively he turned to say as much to Hawke, forgetting for a moment that she wasn’t there. The loss of her hit him suddenly like a sledgehammer to the stomach, and he had to grip the rough bark of a tree to hold himself up. It was the first time he had been alone, truly alone, since learning of her disappearance, and, to his great shame, he was unable to control the violent sobs that wracked his body. He hated wasting time in weeping, but he had been holding at bay the thought of her, alone and helpless in the hands of the Chantry, for too long. Memories of their life together flooded his mind; he couldn’t believe he had so much as considered giving those up. What an unbelievable fool he had been—to leave Hawke, to trust Varania, to believe that somehow he could solve their problems on his own. Had he learned nothing in all their years fighting side-by-side?

It seemed not. The storm of weeping past, Fenris straightened. He had given his word to Varania, and she was still the only thing standing between his family and being captured by an even more merciless magister than she. For the moment, he would have to accept that he had to return to Tevinter with her. But that was far from now, and unimportant compared to the task of the moment.

He continued through the woods, finding that slowly they thinned out and occasional dwellings and fields began to appear. Occasionally someone would appear at the door of a cottage, looking out in his direction. Almost always it was a man, most of them well-built. That made Fenris uneasy; shouldn’t the person at home in a farm dwelling during the day be the woman of the household? And these men stood like soldiers. He wondered with some discomfort if they were Templars, sensing his lyrium. If he was truly approaching the mages’ prison, it would make sense that Templars would be stationed in the outlying farms, keeping an eye on those who approached. He didn’t think they could see him from his position hidden in the trees, his brown cloak blending into the surroundings, but it was difficult to be sure. Although part of him felt that being captured himself might be the best way to find Hawke, Orana wouldn’t be able to follow him if that happened, and the group as a whole would be no closer to discovering the location of the prison.

Fenris could see glimpses of a narrow, worn path ahead of him, and a lone figure making her way up it. He was relieved to see that Orana hadn’t run into any delays on the road. As she hurried ahead, her shawl drawn tightly around her shoulders, he hung back, wanting her to arrive ahead of him. In the distance, he could see a gate—guarded, unsurprisingly—and a wider track that ran up the hill toward some buildings he could glimpse dimly. He climbed a tree to get a better vantage point, watching to see if Orana would make it through the gate without trouble.

Her face was lowered subserviently; they had both learned many lessons in that in their youth as slaves. As Fenris watched, she held out the basket, clearly explaining that she was only selling her laces and ribbons. The guard pushed her, spilling some of the contents of her basket, and Fenris’s hand tightened around the branch. If the guard did more than push, he promised himself that he would go to her aid, whether that betrayed them to the Templars or not. Hawke would not want him to stand by and watch someone who had been so faithful to them and their interests mistreated, even for Hawke’s own benefit.

To his relief, Orana stooped to pick up the scattered wares and bobbed a deep curtsey to the guard before scurrying up the track. Fenris watched for a few more moments, assuring himself that the guard was alone, before cautiously climbing down from the tree. He could see that the village was so emplaced that there was really only the one way up. Even if he had been a better rock climber, it would have been a difficult ascent. No, he would have to go through the gate, and there was no cover. Isabela might have been able to sneak past, but even though he was better at stealth than most warrior-trained fighters, Fenris could not. No, he would have to go through. Perhaps literally, he thought with grim satisfaction.

“Here, now, what do you want, my fellow?” the guard called as Fenris approached.

He didn’t drop his hood, mumbling, “Looking for work.”

“What kind of work, eh? Not a lot around here.” The guard bent to try to look under his cloak as Fenris ducked his head further to hide the telltale marks of the lyrium on his chin, although if the guard was truly a Templar he’d no doubt be able to feel the lyrium’s pulse, even when not activated.

To Fenris’s surprise, the guard hastily stepped back. “Pass on. And good luck to you.”

“Er … thank you.” He was so startled he almost pushed his hood back to stare at the man, but caught himself in time, moving up the track slowly, as though he was much older and more feeble than he actually was.

The settlement was small and quiet, not a lot of people about. No children, he noticed. That was interesting. It seemed to confirm the suspicion that this was a place of Templars. Fenris worried for a moment about their group’s plan to arrive gradually. They would certainly call attention to themselves, no matter whether they arrived one at a time or all at once. It was too late to do anything about that now, however—he was in, however inexplicably, and had no guarantee that he would be allowed in again if he left to warn the others. Perhaps he could find Orana and send her back out with the warning.

He saw the inn ahead and determined to stop in to see how Orana was faring there and try to speak with her without calling attention to them.

At first glance, it appeared to be a typical small-village tavern, with various louts drinking at tables and a satisfactorily buxom tavern wench bustling around to serve them. But Fenris could tell these men were well-trained from the subtle but evident straightening of their postures when he came in. Each of them had immediately gone on the alert. This would be much more difficult than they had hoped, he thought. No one here was going to give him a word of assistance, and if he so much as mentioned anything about the Aeonar, no doubt they’d take him there … and throw away the key.

Orana was there, the tavern wench bending over the basket of laces. Fenris carefully didn’t look in the other elf’s direction as he approached the bar.

“Help you?” the bartender looked carefully bored.

“I need a room.”

“Yup.” The man’s sharp eyes belied his tone, and Fenris’s skin prickled. He was going to have to work fast and get out of here—he didn’t trust these people at all. He took the room key and went upstairs, locking the door behind him. He would wait until nightfall and then he would see what he could see.

It wasn’t a long wait; it got dark early around here. As soon as it did, Fenris activated the lyrium and carefully slipped through the window without opening it. He’d practiced phasing his whole body through matter before, but it had been a long while. He was relieved it had worked, and that the heavy cloak had diffused the glow enough that it seemed unlikely to be noticeable from the ground. Deactivating the lyrium, he climbed down the side of the inn, another skill he hadn’t used in a long time. On the ground, he paused to look around, trusting to his cloak to keep him unnoticed.

Sure enough, he saw light from a single lantern as someone moved up the mountain. Fenris followed at a distance. He had assumed that the Templars would approach the prison itself cautiously and under cover of darkness, and was pleased to see that he had been right.

They walked for a long time; Fenris wondered why the lantern didn’t go out. He was glad to have night vision, because the path was rocky and difficult to pick his way through. The temperature was dropping; it was almost icy, and a heavy fog filled the air. It was hard to discern the light from that lantern. But now he hardly needed it, because he could hear the screams. Ahead of him, someone was crying out in terror. It wasn’t Hawke; he could tell. But that was not reassuring. Who was to say it had not been Hawke on another night? Or would not be on a night yet to come?

Fenris moved closer to the sounds as the structure appeared out of the mist. His mouth fell open in awe. The prison was huge, rising high into the sky, and it rested near the edge of a cliff, bare grey stones rising to the equally bare grey stones of the tower itself. Somewhere in that edifice was the woman he loved. How in Thedas was he supposed to find her in there? How was he supposed to get in there in the first place?

After a few minutes of standing there in stunned silence, he shook himself. This was no way to accomplish his task. Moving slightly closer, he studied the structure. There were no obvious entrances other than the main doors, which were heavily guarded. An additional patrol of Templars passed back and forth at what seemed to be irregular intervals, as well. The man carrying the lantern had arrived at the front of the building and was talking to the guards. He handed them a satchel and took a second one from them. Lyrium? Fenris wondered. It didn’t look big enough to contain much food, unless they starved the prisoners, but that tower had to hold half a hundred of them, at least. Even starving, the contents of a satchel that size wouldn’t feed them all for a day.

He couldn’t kill the guards, because there would be an alarm once they were found, and that would jeopardize the whole plan.

As he considered, he was sidling closer, moving from shadow to shadow, considering the problem. Then, the guard who had taken the satchel went inside; the other two guards moved toward the road, accompanying the man with the lantern. He could see the patrol, walking away from the entrance down a fair bit, and could not believe his luck. Swiftly, he hurried across the courtyard, ducking inside the door, which the guard with the satchel had left open, and hiding himself behind it. The guard with the satchel came back without it, walking slowly and whistling. He pulled the door closed behind him, not even noticing Fenris standing behind it.

Fenris closed his eyes for a moment, his limbs weak with relief, and then quickly began making his way down the stone hallway. The next question, of course, was how to find Hawke. He wished he could simply feel her presence, but, much as he loved her, he could not. Making his way down the hallway, he heard voices in a room off to the side. Loud, boisterous, drunk voices. Finding a small shadow to hide in, he put his ear to the wall, listening carefully. Luck was with him again, because one of the men was shouting, “Where’d we put that Champion, anyway? Like to get me a piece o’ that!”

With an effort, Fenris kept himself from bursting in and giving the man a piece of his fist in the heart. Another voice answered, “She’s all the way up on the fourth floor. Way too far to walk; take that other one from down the hall.”

His heart fairly bursting with sudden excitement and hope, Fenris practically sprinted down the hallway, praying to the Maker, if such an entity existed and was listening, that there would be no guards in his way.

By the time he reached the fourth floor, he was winded and his legs were sore, but his heart was pounding for an entirely different reason. He moved swiftly from door to door, keeping his eyes open for guards. Eventually, when he thought he’d gone about halfway around the tower, he laid his ear against yet one more door. And inside, he heard the sweetest of all possible sounds—the voice of his Hawke, humming to herself.


	28. Trust Me

_{The previous day}_

Hawke finished her second set of push-ups for the day, pleased with her progress so far. It was slow going, building back up to her former strength, and she was hampered by the size of her cell and the lack of a sword, but she could feel the improvement in her muscle tone already. The exercise helped keep her mental fortitude up, as well, giving her a goal to work toward. Otherwise, the waiting might have overwhelmed her with sheer hopelessness.

She’d seen Keran a couple of times, but had not been taken from her cell again. Apparently Keran felt that had been too much mental stimulation for her. Instead, he chose to hover in the door of her cell, mocking her efforts at reconditioning her body and reminding her that no one knew where she was, or how to find her, and that even if they did, the Templars would see them coming miles away.

As he spoke, she tried to stare blankly at him, to let her mind go elsewhere, just to not listen. But she couldn’t help hearing, and she knew that he was right. No one could come for her.

After he had left the most recent time, Evelyn had sat on her bed, curled up in that fluffy warm blanket, staring into space. How long she sat there, she didn’t know—it was hard to tell the passage of time in the indirect light from the one high window. The chief difference between day and night tended to be the screaming, which seemed to stop at sunrise and begin again when the sun’s face had disappeared over the horizon.

At last, a little voice inside her—one that sounded remarkably like Varric’s—said to her, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Hawke leaped up from the bed, balling up the blanket and throwing it across the room. The voice was right. It’s exactly what Varric would have said had he been here, although he’d have used more words. She was allowing herself to be dragged down into despair, and she was wallowing in it. Well, no more. Fenris would not be coming; she knew that. But Varric—nothing would keep Varric from coming after her, not even the cursed pride and stubbornness that kept her husband from doing so. Varric had little pride, and his stubbornness was all outwardly focused. He would find a way. And after years of getting around the Merchants’ Guild, he would find a way around the Templars, too.

Evelyn told herself these things sternly, standing up straight and shouting them in her mind as though she was back in the militia. She refused to give way to despair again, not because of a simpering louse like Keran. That boy wouldn’t be standing here if she hadn’t saved his life in the first place, she reminded herself with irritation.

She looked around the cell. How could she foil their plots? For starters, the bed. She ripped the remaining covers off of it, leaving only the top sheet. Then she flipped up the mattress, frowning. The bedropes were spaced far enough apart that she couldn’t take the mattress off entirely and expect to get any sleep. But if she took the mattress off the frame and laid it on the ground, that should certainly help. She didn’t worry overly much about rodents or bugs interfering with her if she slept on the ground, as thus far she’d seen no sign of any infestations.

Hauling the bed furniture around gave her something physical to do, which was a relief, and Hawke was glad to have worked up an honest sweat for the first time in a long while. She thought it would help, as well, to have made her bed a bit more like something that belonged in a prison cell, stark and uncomfortable. The mattress on the floor meant that she would have to work on her balance, and strengthen her knees. She was working through a set of squats when she heard the scrape of a key in the door.

Hawke stood straight, expecting Keran, and was surprised to see Cullen’s greying head come around the metal door instead. He raised his eyebrows at the changed look of the cell. “Housekeeping?”

“Spring cleaning.”

“Industrious of you.” He sat heavily down on the edge of the empty bedframe. “It won’t work, you know. Others have tried it before.”

“I’ve never tried it before.”

“And you are the Champion of Kirkwall.”

“Please. You of all people should know I never wanted that title. It was thrust upon me by Knight-Commander Meredith, and I think she chose it to mock me.”

“Probably so.” Cullen chuckled. “Hard to tell what went on in her mind.”

“Even she didn’t know, by the end.”

He sobered. “No, that’s true.”

“Cullen, surely they know I didn’t know anything about what Anders was doing.”

“Do they?”

Hawke threw back her head and groaned in frustration. “Maybe the real problem is that I don’t know who ‘they’ are. Are you one of them? Or are you another lost soul locked up here rotting away on the edge of the world?”

“Who says I can’t be both?”

“Are you?” They were staring at each other, Hawke defiantly, and Cullen with sorrow in his eyes.

He got up, coming toward her, and took her hands. She stared down at their clasped hands, stunned by the first touch in weeks that was personal—he had reached for her, Evelyn Hawke, and not for a prisoner or the symbol that was the Champion of Kirkwall. Cullen’s thumbs stroked the backs of her hands. Hawke gulped at the sensation. It had been such a long time that it felt like her skin was brand-new. “Hawke. I am not your enemy. If you’ll let me, I want to be your friend. I can help you.”

“Help me how?”

“I can try to make things easier for you here. But you can’t make an enemy of Keran. He’s a dangerous man.”

“I’m getting that.” She chuckled nervously, uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze.

“Hawke.” His voice was raspy and low, his eyes half-lidded, and Hawke found herself leaning into him, drawn to the warmth of his body and the comfort of his presence. Cullen’s breath brushed across her lips. What in Thedas was she doing? She jumped back, tearing her hands out of his grasp.

“Cullen, please remember I’m a married woman.”

His eyes seemed to flash with anger, or had she imagined it? Because the next second, the tired, kind smile had returned to his face. “In truth, I had forgotten. How is Messere Fenris?”

“There are some difficulties with his availability at the moment, but last I saw him he was well.”

“The last you saw him? Do you mean to say that he left you?”

Crossing her arms, Hawke frowned. “Don’t play me for a fool, Cullen. Keran must have known about all this, since he followed me to Minrathous, and I very much doubt that he would have sent you in here without telling you.”

Cullen nodded. “Yes, you’re right. I didn’t want to admit that I knew so much about your circumstances. Forgive me?”

He was her only ally here, even if she wasn’t entirely sure he was useful … or trustworthy. “Of course. It’s a sensitive subject, as you might imagine.”

“You don’t think he will try to free himself and come for you?”

“Have you ever tried to get free from a Tevinter magister?” she asked drily. “There’s a better chance that my dead father will come down from the Maker’s side and smite you all with the power of his magic.”

“I wouldn’t make those kinds of jokes if I were you, Hawke.”

“What are you going to do, lock me up?”

Cullen’s eyes were serious. “Please don’t make the mistake of thinking that just because you’ve been well-treated so far we can’t do worse to you if we choose.”

She didn’t miss the use of the word “we”. Definitely not trustworthy.

He must have been aware of his slip-up, as well, because he let his shoulders slump a bit more, as if to emphasize his weariness and comparative helplessness. “Sorry. Old habits die hard. Usually the people kept here are apostates or criminals who have sinned against the Chantry.”

“And you don’t think I’m one of those?”

“No. I know you’re not.” It was impossible to doubt his sincerity; his eyes held hers directly and forthrightly. Still, sincerity didn’t equate to helpfulness, Hawke reminded herself. “I’ll see what I can do to convince Keran of that.”

“Can you?”

“Perhaps.”

“And what would I owe you for such a favor?” It was as well to have the terms laid out up front.

“Owe me? For saving your life? Hawke, I ask no payment for such things.”

But the reminder was there. Hawke was disquieted by the undeniable need to lean on Cullen, at least a little, and if only for appearance’s sake. He must have been sent in here to earn her trust … if she didn’t display any, that could be just as dangerous as falling into the trap of his soft sympathy with her eyes closed.

“If you can get me out of here, Cullen, you would have my gratitude. Perhaps I could return the favor.”

His eyes darted to the door. Was someone standing outside listening? Hawke wondered. “You are very kind, Hawke. But facilitating an escape is beyond my influence. What I can do is try to act as a buffer between you and some of the more … extreme members of my order, to attempt to protect you from their overzealousness.”

“I would appreciate that, too, of course.”

Cullen began moving backward toward the door, as if at some sort of signal. “We’ll talk again, then, Hawke?”

“I look forward to it.” She stayed where she was, watching as he went through the door and listening to the thick, heavy sounds of it being shut and locked. So, here she was again. Had that visit moved her any farther forward? No, she decided, for all that it had been diverting, it hadn’t taught her for sure if Cullen was sincere. His strings were being pulled by someone, that much was clear, but was there intent there beyond what he was being told to do? She wished she knew.

There wasn’t any point in dwelling on it. Instead, she went back to exercising, and when she was ready for a rest she stretched out across the bare ropes of the bedframe, looking up at the ceiling, remembering happier times, and humming a naughty little ditty she’d picked up from Isabela at some point.


	29. Prison for Two

Hawke found herself more or less content. It was cold in the cell, especially without the thick blankets; it had been a while since her last tray of food; and she hadn’t had a proper bath in a very long time. But all those discomforts were the way prison was supposed to be, and she preferred them to the luxurious trap of that comfortable mattress. The ropes of the bed squeaked underneath her, digging into her back, but she had chosen that, and so it didn’t bother her as much as it might have otherwise.

So when a familiar glowing arm thrust itself through the door, the idea that she had somehow fallen into the Chantry’s trap and gone insane anyway made her leap from the bed, practically falling against the stone wall.

The arm was followed by a remarkably real-looking facsimile of its owner, who stood looking at Hawke with relief and hunger that seemed so real she wanted to cry.

“I told you not to do that,” she whispered. “He wouldn’t be here. He couldn’t. He’s in Tevinter.”

“Hawke.” He stepped toward her, his wonderful voice pitch-perfect.

Where had she gone wrong? Was this blood magic, or was she hallucinating? “Stay away from me.” They had attended well to detail, she had to admit. His hair was shorn, as she had seen it last, but grown a bit, as though it hadn’t been cut again since. She wanted to reach out and brush her hand over it. The impulse made her back up a little. If she let this marvelously accurate image touch her, she would throw herself into its arms and never let go.

“We must go. Quickly. Hawke, please!”

What would happen if she took that outstretched hand and let him lead her through the door? Wait, the door. “How do you expect me to go? I don’t have magic markings that let me walk through walls.”

“I believe it is possible for me to unlock the door using my abilities.”

Hawke frowned. He’d never known how to do that before. “Where did you learn that?”

“Isabela taught me, on the voyage here.”

Well, that was plausible. He was still staring at her, intensely, and it was getting very hard to ignore the need to touch him and assure herself that he was real. “Aren’t you afraid the lyrium will draw the Templars?”

“Yes. Which is why we should move swiftly. Hawke, argue with me later—I will welcome it. Just come with me now.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then shook her head. “It isn’t you. It can’t be you.”

The realization dawned in his eyes now. “You think I am some sort of apparition? A trick of the Templars?”

“Well … yes. Yes, I do.”

“I am not. I am as real as you are. Please believe me.”

Oh, that voice, in its softest, most tenderly beseeching tones. It called up so many intimate memories. Hawke quivered, her hand rising toward him of its own volition. “How do I know?”

He raised his own hand, and she saw that damnable piece of velvet tied around it. “I am yours, Hawke. I have always been.”

“You are Varania’s,” she spat, remembering the scene in his horrible little dungeon. “If you were really you, you would remember what you said.”

He swallowed painfully. “I was trying to push you away, for your own good, to make you leave me there and go back where you would be safe and cared for.” He dug inside his breastplate and lifted out a chain. The gold ring he had worn for so many years hung on the end of it. “I broke my vows to you—that much is true. But in my heart I still belong to you. There is no other way for me to live.”

She believed that; she had always believed it. Had the Chantry not taken her as soon as she’d left him, she’d have been back at him the next day, once the impact of his words had had time to soften. Would a hallucination, or a creation of the Chantry’s blood magic, have known that she believed it? Any normal woman would have been angry with him for leaving. She had been lost without him, but she had always understood the reasoning that had convinced him to go. Evelyn took a step toward him, but held up a hand as she saw the happiness and relief in his green eyes. “One last question.”

“What?”

“When this is all over, if we get away … what will you do?”

It was hard for him; she could see that. His eyes dropped to the floor, unable to meet hers, as he answered. “I will have to go back to the Imperium with my sister. I have given her my word … and she is still the only protection you and Bianca have against those who seek to claim me for their own.” As he looked back up, she could see that he thought he had said the wrong thing—but it was the truth, she knew him well enough to know that, and he had told it despite what it cost. He had always told her the truth, even when he hadn’t wanted to.

Tears filled Evelyn’s eyes. “Fenris.” She reached up a hand, laying it along the side of his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin and the faint wetness on her fingertips as a tear spilled down his face, too.

And then she was in his arms, with his mouth on hers, hungrily searching for her response, which she gladly gave to him. The taste of him, the familiar scent of leather and lyrium, the strong narrow body pressed against hers—Evelyn pressed closer, clinging to him. Need was rising in her, filling her body, chasing out the prison’s chill. Fenris groaned, his arms tightening around her, pulling her even harder against him, as though he was afraid to loosen his hold even for a moment.

After a few moments he broke the kiss, pushing her away. He was breathing hard and his eyes were glowing and hazy with passion, but he turned toward the door. “We need to go. Quickly.” His hand touched the side of her face and she leaned into the familiar caress. “There will be time … later … for all else.”

“Right.” Hawke nodded, content for the moment to follow where he led.

He activated the lyrium, reaching for the workings of the lock—and swore as his hand connected, hard, with the door. He tried again, and again, but he could not phase through.

“You got in that way.”

“But I do not appear capable of getting out.”

“What if you tried the walls?”

“An excellent thought.” He did so, testing each wall in turn, and finally gave up, resting his forehead against the stones. “Venhedis!” He looked at her, stricken. “It would appear that I have walked into a trap.”

“And I was the bait. Fenris, I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” He gave her the half-smile she loved. “I would rather be trapped in a cell with you than free without you, no matter what may come of it.”

Evelyn reached for his hand. “Me, too. Is Bianca safe?”

His eyes darted around the room, then came back to hers, and she understood that he didn’t want to tell her too much, in case there were ears. “She is safe.”

It wasn’t the whole story, but it was enough to reassure her. She found herself stroking his hand from wrist to fingertips, his warm smooth skin causing the banked fires within her to roar back to life. “Fenris.”

“Yes?”

“If we can’t get out … and no one has come for you yet …”

“Mm?” He knew what she was going to say, that much was clear from the amusement in his eyes, but she would have to say it.

“Maybe we should finish what we started?”

“A clever idea indeed. I approve.” His hands were already busy at the buttons of her loose shirt, and Evelyn worked the catches on his breastplate. As soon as they were both naked from the waist up, they came together, sighing in satisfaction at the feeling of flesh against flesh. Fenris cupped her rear, pulling him against the growing hardness in his leggings. Evelyn ground herself against that ridge of heated flesh. After such a long time alone, it was almost enough to make her climax right there, and when his hand slid beneath the waistband of her pants and cupped her through her smallclothes, she did, clinging to him in the intensity of her pleasure. “I see you missed me,” he whispered in her ear, holding her against him as the spasm ended.

“You have no idea.”

“Show me.”

She chuckled, pulling down his leggings and leaving them discarded with his smallclothes and the rest of her own clothes. Her hand moved on him, stroking and rubbing in all the ways she knew that he liked, while he groaned and thrust against her. Getting down on her knees, she took him into her mouth.

Fenris pushed her back. “Evelyn. I need you.”

“Oh, yes.” She led him to the mattress in the corner. Fenris’s eyes widened in surprise as he felt the softness of the thick mattress beneath him. “I’ll explain later. It’s part of the torture.”

“Indeed.” He didn’t see, she could tell, but it didn’t matter. He was between her legs now, their foreheads together as he entered her, slowly.

Evelyn ran her hands over the brushy growth of his hair, wrapping her legs around his waist to hold him to her. “I love you, Fenris.”

He groaned, nipping her neck with his sharp white teeth. “I love you. Ah, Evelyn! I love you so much.”

His words were even headier than his movements within her, and she felt the pleasure slowly gathering again, overwhelming her. She clung to him as it racked her body, smothering his cries with her mouth as he, too, peaked. Slowly they shifted together, curling into each other’s arms and dragging the heavy blankets on top of them. As Evelyn drifted off to sleep, she didn’t know what would come in the morning, but they were together now, and that was the most important thing. With him at her side, she could face anything.


	30. Reviewing the Situation

“What do you mean he got in?” Isabela whispered. “That lanky, beautiful bastard actually made it?”

Orana nodded, looking fearfully around. She thought she had wandered far enough into the woods to shake anyone who might have been following her, but it was hard to be sure of that. She was sitting beneath a large tree, while Isabela, Bianca, and Kethali perched above her, hidden in the foliage. “I don’t think it was an accident.”

“How do you mean?” Kethali asked.

“I think … he may have been allowed in. It was just—no one seemed suspicious of him. Or asked him any questions. And when he snuck out of the inn, there was someone with a lantern going up toward the prison.”

Kethali shifted his grip on the branch. “How do you know all this?”

“Because I followed him as far as I dared. When someone asked me what I was doing, I said I was looking for elfroot, which you can see best at night. I’ve been back out hunting the last couple of nights as well, to establish a pattern and hopefully draw suspicion away from myself.” She focused on the lace she was tatting, as though she was singing to herself while she worked.

“You’re saying he was trapped,” Isabela said.

“I believe so, yes.”

Kethali sucked in a breath. “We need to get him—both of them—out of there, and quickly. Maker only knows what they’re doing to them in there.”

“Yes, we do,” Orana whispered hurriedly, “but you three can’t come into town. They’re very suspicious of strangers, and they’ll know who two of you are, I’m sure of it.”

“Won’t they know there’s a camp near the town?” Bianca asked, her voice quivering as she tried to keep control of herself.

“You’ll have to be careful. Getting more of us caught won’t help,” Orana said.

Isabela said thoughtfully, “You didn’t see the prison?” 

“No. I didn’t dare get close enough.” Above her head, Orana heard a whimper, and then a hot tear dropped into her hair. Without looking up, she said, “It’s all right, Mistress Bianca. Your parents will take care of each other.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t even know for sure that my father made it all the way to the prison, or that he got inside, or that if he did get inside, they didn’t just kill him. And none of you care if they did, either!”

There was a rustling in the leaves as Kethali reached for Bianca’s hand.

“Watch it, young lady,” Isabela said, but with less heat than she would have used for anyone else. “I’ve been in your father’s corner all along, and I still am.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” Bianca said weakly. “It’s just … Aunt Bethany and Uncle Varric …”

“They lack the required perspective. They judge your father by the way they would have acted in his shoes. I judge him by the way I would have acted, if I hadn’t known Beth would kill me if I did what he did. Your mother is a bit more … It’s different,” Isabela finished.

“Interesting though all this is,” Orana said, “if I stay here much longer, I think they’ll get suspicious. When do we expect Bethany and Freddy?”

“Another day or so, I’d imagine,” Isabela said. “I’ll try to intercept them before they get too close, get them to camp far from us. We’ll have to wrap up warm and minimize the size of our fires. The damned Aeonar just had to be in freezing Ferelden, didn’t it?”

“How are we going to get in there?” Bianca asked. “If they’ll see us going through the village, and there’s no other way … What are we going to do?”

Orana stowed her lace away in her basket and stood up, shaking grass off her skirt. “I had the privilege of seeing this group in action many years ago, Mistress Bianca,” she said, bending over and pretending to retie her stout walking boot. “They specialized in completing tasks most people would have considered impossible, usually by approaching them in very unusual ways.”

“That was a long time ago,” said Bianca fretfully.

“Are you calling me old, little girl?” Isabela asked.

“No! I mean …”

Orana left them to it, picking up her basket and walking back toward town. She wished Varric was there; he had a way of cutting through the extraneous issues and getting to the heart of things, even while seeming to be interested only in storytelling. But his stories always seemed to end up making things clearer. It was unfortunate that he would be among the last to arrive.

She wished there was something more she could do in the meantime. She was relatively accepted in Pleasanton now, with orders for laces for several of the barmaids. At first, when Messere Fenris had appeared and disappeared the same night she arrived, she had been concerned that her link to him would be suspected … but the more she listened, the less she thought it was luck that had allowed him into the prison his first night. Her connection to him thus far did not appear to be suspected, which meant she could come and go relatively freely as long as her basket continued to be filled with herbs and her ribbons and laces. But she could not climb the path to the prison—if she were seen anywhere near there, it would look suspicious, after having been found so close the night Messere Fenris had gone.

Briefly, it had crossed her mind to attempt a flirtation with one of the village men, but she wasn’t experienced enough in such things to make it appear real, or to keep it from going to a length she wouldn’t have been comfortable with.

“What did you find today?” the gate guard asked. He had been rude the first day—a method of trying to make her reconsider her attempt to gain entrance to the village, no doubt—but after that had been quite friendly. Orana found it interesting that no one in Pleasanton seemed to care that she was an elf. While there were no other elves in the little village, the fact that she was one had not made anyone treat her any differently. It was strangely pleasant not to be referred to as “knife-ear” or sneered at or have her basket stolen.

She smiled at the gate guard. “Some nice cress for salads, and rose hips for tea.”

He shook his head. “Can’t say as I ever thought much of grass and flowers as a meal. I’m a meat and potatoes man, myself.”

“Where do you get meat and potatoes here? I haven’t seen so much as a chicken in the village. That would be tasty, wouldn’t it, a little chicken, stewed, with some dumplings?”

“Keep talking like that, this tour of guard duty’s going to feel like an age.” He chuckled. “They bring supplies in once a week or so, in big wagons full, stock up the stores. Keeps the town from getting cluttered up with animal droppings. We like it to smell good around here, you know.”

“Maker be praised for that!”

“Indeed.”

Orana passed on, scarcely able to contain her elation. Surely in a wagon load of supplies, there would be a way to conceal the arrival of the rest of the group. Of course, how to get them out of the wagon without being detected … that was another question altogether. What would Varric do, if he were here? He would find a method of distracting the men who came to unload. A live chicken or two in with the other supplies? The gate guard seemed to indicate all the animals brought in were dead. But how would you keep chickens quiet in transport? Darkness helped, sometimes, and immobilization.

Well, there was a start to an idea, at least. She would run it by the others when she saw them next—no doubt Captain Isabela would have a few grand fillips to add to the plan, and that young Freddy had a good head on his shoulders, too. With their help, she could make something out of this beginning.

Orana couldn’t help but smile, wishing that Varric could see her now. He would be so proud of her.


	31. Reconstruction

Hawke came slowly to wakefulness. It was warm under the covers and a familiar lean body was pressed against hers. For a moment, she thought she must be dreaming; the reality that she was sure of, that of being imprisoned in Aeonar Fortress, did not seem to match the evidence of her senses. Did it matter? she thought sleepily, cuddling closer and listening to his deep, even breathing near her ear. Better to lie there dreaming of being in his arms than to lie there fearing the Templars.

No, she told herself sternly. It would not do to be sucked into the Templars’ soft, warm maw. She moved, throwing the covers off, and was greeted with a murmur of protest as Fenris’s strong arm tightened around her waist.

Only then did she remember the events of the night before. Relaxing back against Fenris, Hawke sighed in contentment.

“Much better,” he murmured in her ear, and she shivered.

“I forgot you were here.”

“I see your experiences have not altered your difficulty in achieving full cognition on first waking.”

Hawke snorted. “Hardly. They kept me drugged all the way here. It wasn’t until my feet touched good hard Fereldan soil that I managed to wake up at all.”

Fenris drew her more closely against him, his arms closing around her protectively. “They kept you drugged?” he asked, in a tone that boded poorly for whichever Templar was first through the door.

“It was probably more pleasant than whatever they might have thought to do if I’d been awake.” Evelyn shifted so that she could look at his face, smiling at him. “And no doubt more pleasant than your journey. I can’t imagine Varric and Bethany made that any too much fun.”

He glanced sharply upward at the wall, clearly wondering if they were being overheard. “They did not. Nor did Bianca, who blamed me quite severely for the entire situation.”

“Bianca blamed you for something? Well, as I live and breathe. I never thought I’d see the day that the favorite parent was toppled from his pedestal.” She poked him in the ribs.

“It was not amusing.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t. But it had to happen sometime. She couldn’t go on thinking you hung the moon her whole life. Not even I think that.”

Fenris sat up, looking at her with troubled green eyes. “I am far from perfect. Or worthy, for that matter. You and Bianca have always deserved better than anything I could provide. It is to my eternal shame that my actions landed us in this mess to begin with.”

“Yes, it is, and they certainly did. I swear to the Maker, Fenris, the next time you decide that the answer to our problems lies in closing yourself off from me, I’ll kill you myself, then follow you into the Fade and bring you back again. I’ve had it with this nonsense, you hear me?” Hawke was sitting up now, too, holding his gaze with her own.

“Why would you go to the trouble of bringing me back, in that case?”

“You think I would let the Maker have you after I’ve gone to so much trouble to keep you for myself?” She smiled, but Fenris shook his head, his eyes dark and troubled.

“I do not understand why you have forgiven me for my selfishness. I failed to understand it all those years ago, and I do not now. Why do you not send me away after all the hurt I have caused you?” he whispered, searching her face for the answer.

“Because I love you, you idiot. I don’t ever want to live without you, not for a minute. You may be a stubborn, selfish fool—but everything you’ve ever done, you’ve done because you thought it was better for me, and at great cost to yourself. Just because you were wrong doesn’t mean your heart wasn’t in the right place.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Just don’t do it again. I couldn’t stand to lose you one more time.”

He cleared his throat, and Hawke tensed, preparing for him to protest again that he would be returning to Tevinter with his sister once they escaped. Assuming they managed such an unheard-of feat as escape from the Aeonar, Hawke fully intended to deal with Varania herself, and as for the rest of the Tevinter manhunters … where there was a will, there was a way, she believed.

Fenris seemed to read her thoughts, because he stood up without answering, looking for his fallen armor. It was a small cell, so the search was a brief one. “It appears they do not feel the need for such amenities as feeding their prisoners.”

“Not too much, no. And pretty much only when it occurs to them. If there’s any kind of regular meal schedule, I haven’t been able to figure out what it is.” Hawke got up, too, stretching.

“You are so thin,” Fenris said, frowning.

“You’re not any too hefty yourself. What does Varania feed you, leftover carrot tops?”

He didn’t respond to that, tugging his gauntlets on. “When will they come? I expected them long before now.”

Hawke shrugged. “They pride themselves on being unpredictable. The question is, who will come, and what we should do about it when they do.” She collected her own clothes, which didn’t take nearly as long to put on as Fenris’s armor. She looked at it longingly, missing her own armor.

“I have an idea.” The flare of his markings was bright in the dim room, leaving little question as to his intentions.

“Cullen and Keran both know what you can do. They’ll be prepared.”

“Cullen? He is here?”

“Yes.” Hawke crossed her arms, leaning against the wall. “I can’t figure him out. He’s all hot and cold. One minute he’s my best friend, the next he’s a tool of the Templars, then he turns on the charm—“

A low growl from her husband cut her words off. “I will kill him.”

“He didn’t touch me, Fenris.”

“I do not care.”

“You know, some women might find it irritating to have the husband who abandoned them threatening a perfectly nice man who tried to flirt with them.”

“And you?” His voice deepened, and two swift steps had him in front of her, his arm stealing around her waist to pull her against him.

For answer, she kissed him, her fingers curving around the back of his head. She missed the silky fall of hair that she loved to bury her hands in.

“Did you flirt back?” Fenris asked into her ear, nipping the edge and licking her earlobe.

“No.” He hummed in satisfaction, his mouth moving down her neck, and Hawke arched her neck into his touch. “What about you?” she whispered. “Did Varania live up to the magisters’ reputation and try to stud you out to her other slaves?” The sudden stillness of his hands and mouth were an eloquent response, and she grasped him by the shoulders moving her head until she could look him in the face. “Did you allow it?”

“I did not,” he said forcefully. “You must believe me.”

Evelyn searched his eyes. “Did you want to? I’m sure they were young, and beautiful, and …”

Fenris cupped her face with his hands, stopping her words with his thumbs over her lips. “You are the only beautiful woman in the world.”

She hadn’t even known she was so worried about this, but his response filled her with relief. Evelyn heard herself sigh as his mouth closed on hers again, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, holding on for dear life.

And, of course, that was when the door opened.


	32. The Mad Templar

Fenris and Hawke froze in mid-kiss as the heavy clank and scrape of boots on the stone floor preceded a blond Templar into the cell. They turned to look at him, Fenris’s hands tightening protectively on Hawke’s waist. No one would take her from him, and no one would harm her while he was there to prevent it.

“What a tender and touching scene. Look, Hawke, he missed you. And you thought he’d abandoned you and was never, ever coming back.”

She sighed, leaning her head back against the wall. “Fenris, you remember Keran, don’t you?”

“I do.” Fenris held the other man’s gaze evenly. “I see your ingratitude has reached new heights.”

Keran’s eyebrows flew up. “Ingratitude? What, because she ‘rescued’ me from the blood mages, brought me back to a lifetime of scrutiny and distrust? Do you know what it’s like to constantly be watched, everyone around you waiting for an abomination to burst forth from you?”

“Yes, I do,” Hawke snapped at him. “I watched my father and my sister go through it most of my life. It’s the way the Chantry treats mages, and the way they make sure everyone else does. What, tough little Templar can dish it out, but you can’t take it?”

The taunting hit home. Keran’s jaw clenched, a muscle in it twitching. “You will keep a civil tongue in your head.”

“Or what? You’ll lock me up?”

“You’ve made that smart remark before, Champion. Be aware that up until now you have been treated with kid gloves. But you have nothing more that we want.” His gaze flicked to Fenris, and a smile turned up the corners of his mouth. “You proved a superb bait, however.”

“I was your target?” Fenris was honestly surprised.

“Not entirely. The Champion here has some value, after all. But to capture both of you with such ease … It’s quite a feather in my helmet, I don’t mind telling you.”

“And what do you intend to do with us now?”

“Well, you can rot here, Champion, until we decide we want to punish you publicly for your companion’s misdeeds. You know perfectly well the chaos that one act set off amongst Circles all over Thedas. You may not have set the explosives, but it was your team member who did, and you were the one who protected him all those years. That blood is on your hands.”

Hawke sighed heavily. “Look, love,” she said to Fenris, “another one. You two will have so much to talk about.”

He couldn’t deny having made similar arguments over the years, both after Anders had been killed and long before. “If you had only listened to me earlier …”

“Yes, yes, I could have stopped him. Maybe. The man was insane—I think he’d have found a way, with me or without me. At least my way, the people who lived in Darktown were taken care of for the better part of a decade.”

“And you can live with what happened as a result of that?” Fenris asked. “Our friend was in that Chantry.”

“I know it, and if I could have prevented what Anders did, I would have. I tried to! I sent the Templars for him just days before. It isn’t my fault that he evaded them. And don’t you dare remind me of Sebastian!”

“Well.” Keran was looking between the two of them with a broad smile on his face. “Trouble in paradise, lovebirds?”

Fenris’s eyes sought out Hawke’s, exchanging an anxious look that reassured them both. This was an old argument, and a familiar one; they both knew that the other was as much right as wrong, and that there were no good resolutions to the discussion.

Hawke shrugged. “People in relationships sometimes argue, Keran. Perhaps if you’d ever had one, you would know that. Don’t you hate the Chantry for that, for locking you away and making certain you never know the love of a woman?”

“Please cease your ham-handed attempts to shame me, Champion. I have known the love of many women. And not a few men.” Keran gave a triumphant smile.

“Touching is not love. Nor is sex,” Fenris said. “The Chantry denies you a chance to experience real love, just as it denies that chance to the mages.” He reached for Hawke’s hand, reveling in the feel of her touch after all this time apart. “Can you truly say there is someone in the world who knows you better than anyone else? Who cares for you more than they care for anyone else?”

The Templar’s blue eyes darkened. “Oh, is this the tactic? ‘Pity the poor Templar, he doesn’t have our epic love’? Or any love? Tell me, knife ear, where is your love going to get you when I drag you out of here in chains? When I slice you open to taste the lyrium running through your veins?” Keran chuckled, a surprising sound in the small, echoing chamber. “Listen to me, writing poetry. Maybe I’ll set it to music and make you dance to it.”

“You’re insane,” Hawke said.

“Lyrium, sweetheart. A lifetime’s worth of it. Tasty, but it does take its toll.” He took a vial from a pocket in his skirt, uncorked it, and started to toss it back. Then he stopped, staring at the vial, and then at Fenris. “Why dilute when you can tap it straight from the keg?”

“Fenris is not a lyrium keg! It’s shielded. The lyrium in his system has no effect on him or those around him. It provides power, yes, but not in the way you’re thinking, and it only fuels his abilities. Nothing more.” Hawke placed herself protectively in front of Fenris. He appreciated the gesture, but she was hardly a daunting figure in the loose-fitting cotton pants and shirt she had been given by the Chantry.

“We’ll just see about that.” Keran drank the lyrium after all. From the trembling of the Templar’s fingers, Fenris judged that he wouldn’t have been able to cork the vial again. Then Keran moved toward them, his eyes glittering.

“There are two of us,” Fenris pointed out mildly.

“There are more than two of my people,” Keran countered.

“I don’t see them in here. What is to prevent me from ripping your heart out through your chest?”

“You can do that?”

“You have seen me do so. It was long ago, however, and your memory may not be what it once was.” Fenris glanced pointedly at the empty vial still in the Templar’s hand, nudging Hawke gently to the side as he did so. If one of them were to be in the Templar’s path, he wanted that one to be him.

“I’m still more than a match for you, elf.” Keran petulantly hurled the vial at him. It shattered against the stone wall, pieces of glass showering around Fenris and Hawke’s bare feet. Keran giggled at the sight. “Too bad we don’t have any mages handy to heal you if you step on that. Oh, wait, we do. But you’ll never see them.”

Hawke’s fingers tightened on Fenris’s wrist, and he knew she was thinking of her sister and her father, and identifying with the mages locked up in this tower. He had to admit, much as he believed in oversight for mages, the Chantry took it a bit too far. In this place, at least.

“I am going to kill you,” Hawke said, very slowly and quietly. “The way I should have done the first time I saw you.”

Keran looked her up and down in contempt. “Good luck with that.”

“In a fair fight, with a sword in my hands, I could take you,” she said with confidence. 

“You couldn’t lift a sword in your current condition. We’ve seen to that.”

“Have you?” Hawke asked mildly. Fenris didn’t know if she could or not—she was terribly thin—but she had a lifetime’s worth of training. It was a moot point, however. Even as lyrium-addled as he was, this Templar was too smart to be taunted into such a foolish error as arming the Champion of Kirkwall.

Or was he? Keran was looking at her with interest and what appeared to be honest curiosity. “I’ll be seeing you both later,” he said at last, backing out of the cell. “Champion … elf. Ta-ta!”

The door closed behind him. Hawke and Fenris looked at one another. “You think he’ll go for it?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Who can tell? It has bought us some time … and every moment with you is a precious gift.” Curving his hand around the back of her neck, he said, “Now, where were we, when we were so rudely interrupted?” 

Hawke’s lips eagerly demonstrated, and they lost themselves in one another, glad for the reprieve, however brief it might be.


	33. Clinging to Hope

“Where are they?” Orana whispered anxiously.

Isabela, safely ensconced in the shadows on the other side of the tree, made a noise in the back of her throat which Orana took to mean she didn’t know, it wasn’t her fault, and she’d kill Varric next time she saw him for making her worry. It was a mix of emotions relatively close to Orana’s own, although Orana felt a worry deep in her stomach that she didn’t want to admit to. Varric had been her friend for a long time; just her friend. She was an elf, and a former slave, and it was easy enough to see from Messere Fenris’s current mess what happened to elves and former slaves who got ideas above their station. Far better for Varric if they remained merely friends … assuming he would even want more, and she had no idea what his feelings might be, if any. Bianca was a tough act to compete against, and Orana had heard whispers that Varric had been strongly attached to Merrill, Kethali’s mother, before she had returned to Ferelden. What chance did she have when compared to a powerful mage? 

Orana shook off her thoughts. Time enough to sigh over things that couldn’t be later, when they had all accomplished their goal. “The next food shipment comes in the day after tomorrow. Do you know where they collect it from?”

“Freddy’s been scouting around. They think he’s wanting to be a Templar. His skill set’s all wrong, but they seem pretty desperate for recruits. Wonder why,” Isabela muttered. “He thinks he knows where to go; might even be able to be hired on to guard the shipment.”

“Resourceful boy,” Orana said approvingly.

“Not bad to look at, either.” Isabela chuckled. At Orana’s silence, she continued, “What? I may be … not so young as I once was, not to mention totally committed to a woman who could freeze my tits off with a snap of her fingers, but I’m not blind.”

Orana shook her head, sighing. Captain Isabela would never change. Her thoughts returned to the matter foremost on her mind. “You don’t think that Tevinter woman might have harmed Varric, do you?”

“Varric? No. I’ve never met anyone Varric couldn’t charm. Well, except Fenris, but Varric never gave that one much of a shot. Too jealous.”

“Jealous?” Orana tried to keep her tone flat; she had known for many years about the special relationship between Varric and Serah Hawke, but she had never thought it went beyond a very close friendship.

Isabela chuckled softly. “Fenris and Varric: two sides of the same Hawke coin. Fenris gets the passion, Varric the friendship, and while neither would want to be in the other’s place, exactly, they’re both unhappy that another man is equally close to her. No one ever taught those two how to share.”

There seemed little to say to that, so Orana let it go. She had always known that Varric’s first allegiance was to the Champion, and that his heart was equally divided between Serah Hawke and the two Biancas. But she had hoped that at some point a little corner of that heart might come open and leave some room, just a little room—she didn’t need much. But this wasn’t the time, she reminded herself sternly. Varric was late, accompanying that Tevinter magister, and there was no telling what type of treachery she might have gotten up to on the road.

“What do we do if Varric hasn’t arrived by the time the shipment is ready to be brought in?”

“Start without him,” Isabela said, as though the answer was obvious.

“But—“

“Look, sweet thing, I know you’re on pins and needles wondering what’s keeping our favorite dwarf, but he’s got cards up sleeves we didn’t even know he was wearing. He’s three steps ahead of us and four or five steps ahead of the Templars, if I know him, and I like to think that after twenty or so years, I do. Best thing we can do in this situation is go ahead with your plan, which is a good one, by the way, and trust that Varric’s going to catch up.”

Orana took heart at the matter-of-fact tone in the pirate captain’s voice. “You’re right.”

“Of course I am.”

“How is Mistress Bianca?”

“Hm.” Isabela’s voice had softened. “Scared out of her wits; buffeted about by those two devoted boys; and, like a sensible girl, drowning it all in practice. She was two feet above the head of a Templar, concealed in the leaves, and he had no idea she was there.” Pride was evident in the pirate’s tone.

“You don’t think Serah Hawke and Messere Fenris are …”

“Dead?”

Orana shivered at the blunt word. “Yes.”

“No. Chantry went to too much trouble to take those two alive. I suspect they’ve got some unpleasant plans for our favorite couple, but death won’t figure into those plans for a good long while.”

“What do you think they want?”

“Something that doesn’t exist. They think the elf’s got some kind of lyrium tap they can use on the poor slobs they’ve got addicted to the stuff.”

“Doesn’t he?”

“Nope. Not that I’ve ever seen. The only time I’ve ever seen his lyrium used to augment a mage’s power we had to dig it out of his veins.” Isabela sounded as though she had relished the gory task. “He took it better than a sailor getting a splinter out. That elf’s as tough as they make ‘em.”

“What will the Templars do when they find out he can’t do what they want him to do?”

“Good question. Still, if he’s with Hawke, I’d back the two of them against any odds.”

“Years ago, maybe.” Orana felt disloyal just making the remark, but it was true—the Champion and her husband weren’t as young as they used to be.

“Yeah, they’ve slowed down some.” There was a long pause, and then Isabela said softly, almost to herself, “But we have to hope for the best. No point in anything else.”

She was right, Orana thought as she made her way slowly back to the village. There wasn’t a point in anything else … they were all going in after the prisoners no matter what, and all they could do was cling to the hope that Serah Hawke and Messere Fenris would still be alive when they got there.


	34. A Display of Power

The next time the Templars came, Fenris and Hawke were prepared for them. In the time since Keran’s last visit, they had discussed the possibilities and determined it was best to use the obvious weapon first, to see how far they would get with only Fenris’s abilities. Neither of them felt comfortable underestimating the Templars and imagining that the first attempt would be either unexpected or successful. So the three daggers Fenris had carried in with him were carefully concealed deep within the soft mattress, along with several loose chunks of the rock wall, in hopes that anyone investigating might find those first.

As soon as the door flew open, the first Templar to come through immediately performed what Hawke recognized as a massive Holy Smite. So massive, in fact, that she could hear screams through the floor—clearly, there was a mage in the cell directly below hers, and that mage was now suffering the aftereffects of the smite. Fenris, on the other hand, was immune, and he had his fist buried in the Templar’s chest before the man could unset from his smiting posture.

Hawke was waiting behind the door, and she grasped the second Templar’s arm as it reached for his sword, pulling him off-balance and then shoving him forward into the room, where Fenris caught him with his other hand, squeezing the life from him in the same way he had the first.

A crossbow bolt flew from the open door, embedding itself in the muscle of Fenris’s upper arm. Hawke nodded at him, concealed as she was behind the door, and he let the lyrium markings deactivate. The precise placement of the bolt where it would hurt but cause little damage said the Templars were testing to see if pain would cause a disruption in Fenris’s powers. It didn’t, but there was no point in letting the Templars know that, not if they could keep the information as an ace in the hole if needed later. They had taken out two Templars, at least, and Hawke assumed the garrison, buried so far back here, would have trouble resupplying with new men. That might have bought them some time … or, if not them, then perhaps some of the other prisoners being held in the Aeonar.

Once the white light of the markings had faded, the expected scrape of boots heralded the entry of a Templar into the cell. This one was helmeted—not Keran, Hawke decided. She’d never seen him wear a helmet. He must prefer to have his face on display at all times, she thought. Too bad he hadn’t been marked up more as a child. A less pretty face might have forced him to work harder for the things he wanted. Or at least have been a better reflection of what lay inside him.

The Templar ordered them both out of the room, although he and his companions made certain to shackle their wrists first. Fenris could easily have gotten out of his, but no one seemed overly concerned by that. The Templars must have guessed, correctly, that he wouldn’t try to escape as long as Hawke was vulnerable. Somewhere inside her, Evelyn thought she should probably have felt guilty that he was in danger on her account, but then, she wouldn’t be in danger if she hadn’t been in Tevinter, alone, trying to find him. And could she regret finally feeling whole again? She was never as much herself as she was when Fenris was with her.

Possibly she should feel grateful to the Templars, she thought with wry amusement. After all, they had accomplished what she hadn’t managed to—they’d gotten Fenris out of Tevinter and caused him to reconsider the insanity of having left her in the first place. Nothing like one’s life being in danger to make one’s husband realize he’d been an idiot.

“Hey, what’re you smilin’ about?” the Templar holding her left arm asked. He sounded offended at the idea that someone in his custody could find something to smile at.

“It wouldn’t translate.”

“Are you callin’ me stupid?”

“You walk around wearing a bucket on your head that you can’t hear through or see out of. Is it really that much of a stretch?”

He backhanded her across the face.

“Apparently so,” she muttered, wishing she could wipe away the trickle of blood from her lip. It itched.

“Shut up,” said the other Templar who held her. This one was a woman. Hawke glanced at the floor, trying to determine from walk pattern or shoes or even some miniscule change in the skirt a way to make this female Templar recognizable the next time they saw her, but there was no discernible difference. Did they choose Templars for their sameness, so one couldn’t be told from another? What a sad way to live, Hawke thought, as a nameless, faceless cog in a giant wheel that used you only as a weapon. Her life hadn’t always been good, but it had been hers, and she had spent it surrounded by people who were as different from one another, and other people, as they could be.

She looked up, craning her neck to see Fenris, who was visibly watching the walls the way she had on her first journey through the prison, trying to follow the path they were taking. She hoped he was having better luck than she had.

The Templars pulled her to a stop in front of a metal door. One knocked at it firmly with a gauntleted fist, two knocks, then a pause, then three more. The door swung open. She was unshackled and pushed into the room. Fenris was pushed in after her, holding onto her waist to steady himself—and her. Hawke put her hands over his, taking comfort in the familiar warmth of his touch.

“You two are just sickening, did you know that?” Keran moved out of the shadows in the back of the room. “After all these years, haven’t you grown tired of all that constant groping?”

Hawke and Fenris exchanged a glance. “Far from it,” Hawke responded.

“Well, you will cease at once.” Keran nodded to a Templar who had been standing behind the door, and it clanged heavily shut. The Templar took Hawke by the elbow, dragging her toward Keran.

“You can let go. I haven’t resisted you yet, have I?” Hawke attempted to dig in her heels, but the stones provided her no leverage and she stumbled instead, nearly taking the Templar down as she fell to her knees.

“Get up, Champion.” Keran’s voice was dangerously soft. “No, stay back,” he said to Fenris. “She’ll have to stand on her own for a change.”

Evelyn got to her feet, slowly, knees aching from the impact on the hard stone. “That was your fault,” she said to the Templar, bracing for a backhand across the mouth for her lippiness. She’d said it to gauge how touchy they were planning to be. It was clear that this was all an extended test, although she wasn’t certain if even Keran knew what his ultimate objective really was.

She glanced over her shoulder at Fenris, reassuring him. He remained by the door, waiting, poised to move at the slightest signal.

The Templar holding Evelyn’s arm led her across the room, albeit with less pulling than before. As they approached the far wall, she saw the shackles attached to it and missed a step, nearly falling again.

“I don’t remember you being this clumsy,” said the Templar, and she caught her breath, recognizing Cullen’s voice. He hadn’t concealed himself beneath a helmet before—why was he now? “Has he done something to you?”

“You know everything that’s been done to me. You’ve been there for most of it, except for Keran running his mouth a few times.”

Cullen led her to the shackles. Evelyn considered briefly—did she fight this, or did she trust Fenris to get her out of it? They were still concealed deep inside the Templars’ prison … and so far no attempt had been made to do serious harm to either of them.

Taking a deep breath, she allowed Cullen to close the metal around her right wrist, and then her left. “What are you planning to do?” she asked him, as he bent to secure her ankles.

He straightened up, lifting the helmet off his head so he could look her in the eye. “I’m sure nothing that hasn’t been done to you before.” His tone was uncharacteristically sharp and hostile.

Hawke had to wonder if this was another tactic aimed at keeping her off guard, the change from wearied friend to harsh jailer. “Cullen?”

Perhaps it was her soft, questioning tone, or the way she leaned as far forward as the shackles would allow her to look into his eyes, but he ducked his head, his cheeks reddening. Then he looked up again, meeting her eyes, and Hawke was startled to see that his were absolutely blazing. “How can you have just let him come back to you that way? Like nothing ever happened? Hawke … I would never have left you.”

Oh. She swallowed. So that was the reason behind the alteration. Gently, surely, she said, “I would never have loved you.”

Cullen pressed his lips together. “So I’ve gathered. It’s always been him, even when it shouldn’t have been.”

“We can’t always choose who becomes the other half of us.”

“No. Apparently we can’t.” He stepped away, back toward where Keran stood in the shadows.

“Elf,” Keran said.

“He has a name,” Hawke snapped.

“As if I care. Elf!”

Fenris looked at him questioningly, but didn’t speak.

“Rip her heart out.”

Hawke glanced at Fenris, who didn’t move a muscle. The utter stillness of his body told her that he was considering a move toward the two Templars. But his voice was calm when he spoke. “You know I will not do any such thing.”

“No. More’s the pity. But I want to see your powers at work. Use them on her.” Keran sounded like nothing so much as a sulking, spoiled child.

Fenris came toward her, and Hawke braced herself. She had seen this trick used often enough that she knew it wouldn’t feel pleasant, but she also knew that it would do little actual harm. She nodded slightly, and Fenris activated his lyrium markings, plunging his hand into her chest.

She closed her eyes, trying to think of other things, trying not to vomit from the feel of his hand in places where it most definitely didn’t belong. At last it was over, and he withdrew his hand.

“Fascinating.” Keran breathed the word from the darkness. “Hawke, how did that feel?”

“Nauseating.”

“Hm.” There was a scratching sound, as though he was writing it down. “More. Can you pass your hand through her arm?”  
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
What seemed like hours later, Hawke and Fenris were brought back to their room. He was exhausted from the constantly activated lyrium, practically stumbling on the cobblestones; Hawke was being dragged along by nameless Templars on either side, so wracked with discomfort from being the test subject for the full extent of his powers. Once the door was pulled shut, both of them fell wearily onto the mattress in the corner, seeking each other’s embrace for comfort.

“Thank the Maker they left you in here with me.”

“I am amazed you would allow me to touch you after those experiences.” Despite his words, his arms tightened around her, drawing her against his chest.

Evelyn listened to his steady heartbeat. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Please, Fenris, please don’t ever leave me again.”

“Never. I swear it.”

She let a few more heartbeats pass before speaking again. “Next time, we need to really try to get out of here.” 

“Should we not wait for Varric? I am certain he will have a plan.”

“But can he execute it in time, even with the others helping him?” She shuddered. “I can’t go through that again.”

“I understand. Next time … we will do our best to escape.”

Drowsily, Evelyn nodded, letting his heartbeat lull her to sleep. “Yes … next time.”


	35. Dwarf Among the Chickens

“Everyone knows the plan, then?” Isabela kept her voice low to avoid being overheard. “The kid’s going to let us know when they’re loading the wagon—he said there’s a scratch on the bucket helm they gave him, so we’ll know which one he is. He’ll signal us when it’s safe, then Bianca and I, and Varric, will get in the wagon.”

“I still think I should go along,” Bethany fretted.

Isabela reached for her lover’s hand, squeezing it. “Not a chance. I won’t walk you straight into the lion’s den and see you caught by the Chantry and killed … or worse. The mages are staying behind, and that’s that.”

“Teyrn Cousland’s people will be along in a day or two,” Varric said. “They’ll look like an innocent merchant’s caravan, but he promised some well-armed fighters. We breach the tower, they come in to support the resulting festivities.”

“You are all fools if you believe it will be nearly so easy as that.” Varania’s voice was cold. She folded her arms across her chest. “I am content to be left out of your plans.”

Bianca glared at her aunt. “Don’t you care about my father at all?”

“I have a great deal of money invested in him,” Varania conceded.

“That’s it? Money?”

There was silence as two pairs of green eyes stared at each other. Bianca’s filled with tears, and she blinked and looked away. Isabela had her own ideas about the Tevinter mage’s involvement in this rescue mission, but the girl might as well learn that not everyone in the world was motivated by things like love or nobility, despite what she might have been raised to believe. This trip had been a big eye-opener for Bianca in the ways of the real world … Isabela was glad that awakening had happened under her watch. Few knew more about the underbelly of people’s desires and motivations than she did. Although it had been a long time since she’d had to feel alone in the world, the way she had in the old Kirkwall days. Thank Bethany for that, and thank Hawke for Bethany.

She reached out and touched Bianca lightly on the arm. When the girl met her eyes, Isabela gave a faint, small shake of the head. Bianca understood, and visibly gathered herself together, standing taller. She was quick, that one.

Across the small campfire, Isabela noticed Kethali’s eyes resting on Bianca with approval and admiration. She wondered what would happen there. Both the boys seemed content to wait to press their case until the girl’s parents were saved, but once that happened young Bianca would find herself with two very earnest young men on her hands. In her shoes, Isabela might have played them off against each other and had some fun, but Bianca appeared just as earnest as her suitors, which was no fun at all, in Isabela’s opinion.

She glanced up through the leaves, calculating the angle of the sun. “Time,” she said briefly.

“Yup.” Varric fastened Bianca securely to him with a complicated system of buckles and straps. Isabela would have gone with something more practical—had, in fact, loaded herself up with small knives anywhere she could fit one without cutting herself.

Isabela turned to Bethany, holding out her hand. The mage took it in both of hers, lifting it to her mouth and kissing the scarred knuckles. Her clear amber eyes looked at Isabela over their joined hands. “You. Don’t be reckless.”

“Aw, now, cupcake, would I do that?” Isabela grinned.

“Yes, you know you would. And since I can’t steer that giant ship without you … you’d better come back.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n Hawke.” Their eyes held each other, and silently Isabela promised what she couldn’t have put into words.

Bianca had turned to Kethali, holding out both of her own hands to him.

“Be safe,” he said, clasping her hands.

Isabela spied the pink flush that stole up Bianca’s cheeks at the contact.

“I’ll try,” the girl said, smiling at the elven mage. “You, too, all right?”

“Of course.” He shifted his feet, fidgeting a bit. “There may be something I can do …”

“You’ll stay here, though, right? I—I couldn’t handle it if something happened to you. It would be all my fault.” Bianca’s voice trembled, and Isabela wondered if the girl was really stable enough to be brought along on such a difficult, delicate mission.

“I will stay here. I promise.” Kethali squeezed her hands. “And you will win through—a spirit like yours cannot fail to do so.”

“Thank you.” Bianca stood a little straighter at his words, her voice strengthening. She turned, looking at Isabela over her shoulder, ignoring Varania completely. The elf crossed her arms, looking amused—and remarkably like Fenris. “Are we ready?” Bianca asked.

“Yes, ma’am.” Isabela chuckled. “Varric?”

“Ready when you are.”

“Good. Follow me.” Isabela swung herself up into the trees above them, moving lightly from branch to branch. Bianca followed her, watching every move closely before attempting it herself. Varric looked up at them both for a moment and shook his head.

“Sodding humans.” He settled for darting along the ground from cover to cover, with surprising speed for a man of his short stature.

The small farmhold where the wagon was being loaded with supplies was bustling today. Isabela was grateful for that—their movements would be less noticeable today. She stretched out on a rooftop near the wagon, with Bianca next to her. She’d lost track of Varric at some point, but the dwarf would find his way—he always did.

“There,” Bianca whispered softly. “That’s Freddy.”

Isabela squinted, but she couldn’t tell a difference. “Are you sure?”

“Uh-huh. I’d know him anywhere.” The girl’s eyes lingered on the broad shoulders of the tall Templar; she didn’t appear to need to look for the long scratch on the back of his helmet. Isabela eyed her sideways, wondering which of the boys she would choose when push came to shove.

A crate of chickens was shoved onto the wagon, and draped with a black cloth to keep them quiet. The workers went back into the barn, and in a flash of movement Isabela saw Varric swing himself in and tuck himself under the black cloth. The chickens fussed a little, but shortly were silent again. Varric had the touch, Isabela reflected. It was a real shame he’d never tried mastering the seductive arts; he’d have been remarkably successful. Isabela had wondered a time or two what he’d have been like under the covers herself. One night while pleasantly drunk on sweet Antivan wine, she’d suggested to Bethany that they try to bring Varric into their bed sometime. The mage had fallen off the boat laughing and had to be rescued. Of course, they’d made love in the ocean that night, Isabela remembered with a smile, so the experience hadn’t been all bad. She’d have to thank Varric for it eventually.

“Isabela.” Bianca nudged her in the side. “That’s the signal.”

The Templar was leaning against the building beneath them, knocking his scratched helmet—with his head still inside it—against the wooden slats. “That has to hurt,” Isabela muttered. She dropped lightly off the side of the roof, landing in an easy crouch, and hurried to the wagon. Instead of climbing in, she ducked underneath. She felt more comfortable holding on to the bottom—less exposed that way, and she could drop off at any point.

The wagon creaked and settled as Bianca climbed in and concealed herself. After a few moments, the bustle resumed around the wagon, and then there were horses being brought alongside. Isabela could see Templar boots, then they disappeared as the boots’ owners mounted their horses. The wagon began moving. Isabela shifted her grip, pulling herself more tightly against the undercarriage of the wagon. So far, so good.

It kept rolling for a fair bit before coming to a stop. Voices, one muffled by the helmet, exchanged code sentences, and then a pair of muddy boots approached. It looked as though the owner of the muddy boots was checking the cargo. Isabela tensed, holding her breath, but apparently he saw nothing, because the boots stepped back and the wagon’s motion resumed. She could see the thick posts of the fence and the open gate as they passed.

The wagon came to a stop in the middle of what appeared to be a courtyard. Isabela tensed. She’d be all right until they pulled it into a barn, but Varric and Bianca …

The men lifting the crate of chickens down complained about the weight, but the black cloth was undisturbed. Varric must have climbed inside the cage. Isabela stifled a chuckle at the idea of feathers all over that beloved coat of his.

“Hey!” It was Freddy’s voice. “Are these bushels of vegetables destined for the inn?”

“Yeah.” The voice came from above Isabela’s head, in the middle of the wagon.

“Inn’s over there, right?”

“No, to the right!”

“Right?”

“Oh, sod it,” said the man above Isabela’s head. “Can’t they ever recruit someone with half a brain?” She could hear the boards creaking as he got down, leading Freddy toward the inn. More creaking, fainter this time, as Bianca darted off the wagon and into concealment somewhere else … or so Isabela assumed from the lack of outcry.

She held on until the wagon was parked inside a barn, the horses unhitched, then finally let herself down, her arms and legs stiff and aching from all the time spent in one position. Through two misaligned boards, she could see the sky, orange with the setting sun’s fading light. Soon it would be time to rendezvous with Orana at the back of the inn, and then … they would storm the Aeonar. Isabela liked the sound of that. It would make a great entry into the annals of Captain Isabela of the _Temptress_. Her last great mission.

Last? Well, maybe not quite _last_.


	36. Of Feelings and Fighting

“How much longer are they intending to hold us here?” Fenris asked, pacing across the little cell for the fifteenth time that hour.

“As long as they want to.” Evelyn shared his frustration, but didn’t see how pacing was likely to help. She was still feeling a little sore, inside and out, from their session with Keran. After all their years together, she wouldn’t have imagined it would be possible for her to develop a greater appreciation for Fenris’s abilities, but being on the receiving end of them had changed her mind. Danarius had been diabolical, but his methods had created a fearsome piece of equipment—a sentiment she wouldn’t have shared with Fenris for any amount of coercion.

Fenris growled in response to her answer, and she smiled. Even testy Fenris was music to her ears.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

That stopped him. He paused at the door, looking at her over his shoulder. “As am I.” One of his ears twitched. Evelyn found that fascinating, watching the movements of his ears. He’d always kept them covered by his hair, or at least obscured by it, and she’d never noticed how reactive they were. It was distracting, really. She was sure it must be more so for him, because his whole body jerked slightly every time one of his ears twitched. “They are coming,” he said abruptly.

“How many?” Evelyn got reluctantly to her feet, still feeling twinges inside her rib cage.

Fenris pressed his face against the door, focusing. “Three? Possibly more. They will not be unprepared this time.” He looked over at her. “Are you able?”

She knew what he was asking. Could she fight the Templars effectively, with a reasonable chance of survival? Hawke tested her muscles. She was weaker than she was used to, and still sore … but she was sure she could withstand a fight better than she could whatever Keran had in store for her next. As Fenris watched her with worried eyes, she nodded. “Able as I’ll ever be, I suspect.”

“I agree. We need to make our move now, before it is too late. I only hope it is Cullen who comes. I will enjoy feeling his heart beneath my fingers.”

The venom in his voice startled her. “Cullen’s just a man trapped in a bad situation.”

He twisted his head against the door so that one green eye was glaring directly at her. “It is that foolish blindness of yours to the weaknesses of others that brings us into situations such as this one—or worse—time and time again.”

She gasped, stiffening as though he had struck her. “You’re blaming me for this?”

“Let us look at the facts, shall we? Who was it who allowed Keran to live, indeed, even championed his return to the Templars, despite the fact that we still cannot know whether he was infested with a demon during his time with Tarohne?”

“Anders said he wasn’t!”

Fenris laughed derisively. “Yes, and he turned out to be such a trustworthy source. Nevertheless, as it turns out the demon lyrium was more than enough to send Keran over the edge, without any additional assistance that may or may not be present.” His arm flexed, the lyrium in it shining, and he turned his glare on that briefly before looking back at Hawke. “Who was it, then, who led Cullen on time and again?”

“I never did!” Hawke cried, stung. Her commitment to Fenris had never been in question, not in her mind or in the minds of others. She was sure of it.

“You treated him as a friend, as a trusted associate. You were gentle with him. You never were blunt with him about your lack of interest. When a man feels that a woman is his last hope for anything good in his life, it is too easy for him to convince himself that anything kind is encouragement. Cullen clearly feels so for you. Why else do you think you are here?”

“Because—because Keran was—“ Hawke stammered.

“Keran could have taken me alone. He had no real need to use you for bait.”

“Now, that’s just not true. You were in Tevinter.”

“Before that? We have no way of knowing how long he was keeping track of us. Or how long he had Cullen whispering in his ear, begging him to bring back the Champion for him. You are blinded by your good nature, Hawke. Cullen’s presence here is not accidental. Nor was the way he ever so solicitously helped you down after Keran had finished making me torture you. Open your eyes.”

Evelyn flushed at his tone. She had done nothing to encourage any regard Cullen had for her—could he really have been behind all this just to bring her to him and attempt to woo her? Turning away from Fenris’s hard stare, she rubbed a hand across her face, trying to clear her thoughts. She put her other hand on the cool stones of the wall, and fought to think clearly, to separate her thoughts from this jumble of Fenris and Cullen and Keran. “Does it matter?” she asked finally. “It makes no difference to how we get out of here, does it?”

“It could do so, depending on who comes to retrieve us from this stone box.”

They were silent for a moment, Fenris’s focus turning back to the hallway outside the room, listening for the approach of the Templars.

“Fenris?” she asked in a small voice.

He raised an eyebrow, removing his forehead from contact with the door to look directly at her.

“I never intended to lead him on.”

“I know you didn’t.” Fenris’s tense face relaxed a little. “You have never truly understood how strongly people are drawn to you, Hawke. That is among your many charms, and does you great credit … when it is not leading you into deathly danger.” He flinched at a sudden noise outside—close enough that Hawke heard it as well. “Are you ready?”

Evelyn nodded slowly, her eyes on his. She had the dagger he had smuggled in tucked into the back of her pants, and he carried the other one hidden in a special pocket in his armor. It boggled her mind that the Templars had left him fully armored. In their eagerness to test all the things he could do for them, they apparently had not given enough thought to all the things he could do to them.

She could hear the heavy metal boots outside the door now, and the scrape of a key in the lock. The door swung open.

“Come on out, hands up. One at a time.” It was a gruff voice and not one she recognized.

Fenris obediently put his hands up; Evelyn could see the tension in his body as he poised to move as soon as he had an opening. She let him go first. Although she couldn’t see around the door, she could follow what happened by the gasp, the flash of familiar white light, the squelch, and the thud that followed. She got quickly into motion, sprinting around the door and drawing her dagger. Fenris had dropped the first Templar already, and was grappling with a second, holding him by the forearms to keep his shortsword at bay.

Evelyn didn’t stop to think about what she was doing—pausing to think would have thrown her off and caused her to overcorrect. She threw the chunk of rock from the wall she carried directly at the Templar, striking him in the side of the helmet. The impact of the throw rang audibly against the helmet, sending the Templar staggering to the side as he frantically clawed at the strap holding the helmet on, which left his front unprotected. Fenris took advantage of the opening to do what he did, and the second Templar joined the first on the floor. While Fenris was occupied with the second Templar, Hawke turned to deal with the third, who was holding a crossbow. It was their good fortune not to have been skewered by a crossbow bolt, apparently, because the Templar was cursing under her breath as she tried to force the mechanism to work. Somewhere, Varric must be responsible for that—if anyone was likely to be the patron spirit of good crossbow luck, it would have to be Varric, Hawke thought as she closed the distance between herself and the Templar with three long strides, pulling her dagger as she moved. The Templar attempted to block Hawke’s blow with the crossbow, but Hawke hadn’t been friends with Varric all these years for nothing; she’d practiced these moves with him many a time. Of course, back then she’d been wearing armor, but the basic moves were the same.

She hissed with pain as the jammed bolt sticking out the end of the crossbow sliced across her forearm, but the wound was a shallow one and she could ignore it. She held the crossbow at bay with her right arm, shoving it hard upward, and used the Templar’s distraction to slide the dagger home in the space between armor and helmet. Arterial blood sprayed into her face, and she sputtered, staggering backward and swiping at her face. That was one area in which clothing was better than armor—fully armored, she’d have given herself a concussion trying to wipe that blood away.

Behind her, she heard a gasp of a different sort. A fourth Templar had been behind the others and had waited until the first three were down before appearing out of the shadows; she turned to see Fenris clutching at his side. Bright red blood showed between his clenched fingers.   
The Templar was utterly silent, no gloating or commentary, as he went in for the kill. It seemed wrong to Hawke—there hadn’t been any indication up to now that the Templars wanted either of them dead, and of the two of them, she would have thought she was the most expendable. But it didn’t matter; all that mattered was that as the Templar focused on Fenris, he wasn’t paying any attention to her, making it very easy for her to wrap her arm around his neck, jerking him backward as she squeezed tightly. The edge of the bucket helmet was cutting into her arm, but the other edge must be cutting into the Templar’s neck, as well, she reasoned. She listened instead for the Templar’s gasps and wheezes. His hands scraped at her arm, the metal gauntlets further shredding the flesh there. But that didn’t last long, because Fenris’s lyrium flared and he sank his free hand into the Templar’s chest.

The limp body was too heavy for Hawke to hold, and she dropped it onto the floor, stepping over it as she rushed to Fenris. “Move your hand; let me see.” He did so, groaning with the pain. Evelyn took the tail of her shirt to wipe around the edges of the wound. It was still bleeding freely, but now at least she could see the cut. It was deep; too deep. Why hadn’t someone thought to send him in with health potions? Even a handful of raw elfroot would have been useful, she thought anxiously.

Then a gust of wind went by the nearest window, causing it to rattle, and from below she heard the nightly chorus of screams begin. Of course! They were in a tower full of mages.

“Can you walk?”

He nodded slowly, his green eyes beginning to haze in a way that chilled Hawke to the bone. But there was nothing for it; he’d die for sure if they stood here in the hallway. She passed his free arm over her shoulders. For once, she was glad that he wasn’t the type of man she used to find attractive, twice her size and half again her height—that kind of man would have been impossible to drag along the stone halls of the Aeonar. Fenris was just about her height and weight, so at least that helped. But he was stumbling along rather than walking, and blood had covered his hand and soaked its way down his leggings. They would be easily followed by whoever came to find out what was taking their Templar escorts so long—he was leaving a trail of blood behind. Her arm was scattering droplets along their way, as well, and would have to be looked at eventually.

Panic threatened to choke her, but she forced it down. She was no good to either of them if she stopped thinking; once upon a time, she’d been good at thinking on her feet. She’d been firm and decisive and in charge. Evelyn reached deep inside her for that Hawke, the one who had been the Champion of Kirkwall, who had been looked to on all sides as the person who knew what to do. So she didn’t know where to find a mage in this Blighted pile of rocks; she knew what her own cell door had looked like, and the odds were good that if she could find another one, she’d find a mage behind it. That was enough for a start—time enough to worry about anything past that once they were there.

“Fenris.”

“Mm?” He roused himself with an obvious effort.

“If you die on me, I’m coming into the Fade to get you, so save me the trip and don’t, will you?”

He frowned, trying to follow her sentence. Coming out the other end, he gave a faint chuckle, but nothing more.

Hawke tried to move faster. By the Maker, she’d carry him if she had to. He couldn’t weigh much more than a really good longsword, she told herself. One way or another, she was getting him to help.

They reached a wide set of stairs that curved down into the depths of the tower, and Hawke didn’t hesitate. She drew Fenris closer so that he was half slung over her shoulder, lifting him from step to step as gently as she could. He muttered a little, but gave no other sign of awareness. Hawke was aware of something wet on her face, and with her free hand reached up to wipe at it, thinking it was blood, but her fingers came away clear—it was tears, rolling freely and unnoticed down her cheeks. If he died—

She wouldn’t let herself think that way. “Fenris!” she said sharply.

“Mm.”

“Stay with me.” Evelyn fought to keep the pleading out of her voice as they reached the next floor. She turned in the direction her cell had been in on the floor above, hoping the layouts would be the same. They came to a door, and she lifted her free hand to work at the heavy iron hasp that held it closed, then gave it a hearty shove with her foot to open it.

“Stay back!” said a voice inside. “Don’t come any closer!” It was a woman’s voice, trembling and liquid as though she had been crying.

Evelyn dragged Fenris in and closed the door behind them, turning to look at the woman in the cell; she was an elf, with black hair shot with streaks of white tumbling down her back, and streaks of tears on her face under bright blue eyes.

“Can you heal?”

“What?”

“Can you heal?” Evelyn practically shouted the words.

The elf put her hands out in front of her, shackled with what Hawke recognized from her carriage ride with Keran as magic-reducing cuffs. “Fenris,” she said urgently. “Fenris!” She shook him.

“Wha’?”

“Activate your lyrium.”

It took a few moments, but she got him to understand what was needed, and between his lyrium powers and the dagger Hawke still carried, they got the cuffs off. She stood over the elf as the blue light of healing filled the room, praying to the Maker it wasn’t too late.


	37. Into the Tower

They met in a small patch of shadow just behind the inn: Bianca and Isabela, Varric, Freddy, and Orana. Bianca noticed with surprise that Orana kept looking at Varric, as if to reassure herself that he was all right. Could Orana have feelings for him? It surprised Bianca … she would have thought they were too old for that sort of thing. But Varric seemed to find a way to be near Orana as well, without actually appearing to try.

He was unlike Freddy in that respect. Freddy found a way to stay near Bianca, but he wasn’t subtle about it, folding his arms and giving her that grin that sent flashes of heat through her at the same time that it irritated her with its cocky certainty. She missed Kethali’s softer, more respectful looks … but in another way she didn’t. Both boys had been patient with her, knowing the strain her parents’ predicament was putting on her, but Bianca knew that her parents safe return meant she would have to make a decision that would end up hurting someone, and she didn’t think she was ready. She blinked back the tears that came to her eyes with a sudden longing for her parents—Papa’s steady support and understanding, Mother’s quick thinking and creative solutions to all sorts of problems.

“Are we ready?” Orana asked hesitantly.

“Ready as we’ll ever be,” Varric assured her.

“What about the mages—“ she caught herself on the word, and looked around worriedly. “I mean, those we left behind?”

“They’ll be along,” Isabela answered. “But we can’t talk here. Orana, you know the way?”

Orana nodded, stepping out of the shadows and squaring her shoulders with determination. Bianca bit her lip to control her fear, the pain overriding her growing terror and awakening her to the upcoming fight. What would occur, exactly, she didn’t know, but she trusted Isabela and Varric … and, oddly enough, Freddy. She followed them all, slipping from shadow to shadow after Orana, who was walking up the path unconcernedly, her basket under her arm, looking around her as though she was simply out on a moonlight stroll.

A voice came out of the darkness, and a man suddenly stood in front of Orana. “’ere now, what goes? Oh, it’s you, miss. You can’t be goin’ up ‘ere, you know that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, sounding flustered. “I only meant to hunt some elfroot for poultices—they’re easier to find in the moonlight.”

“No elfroot this—ugh!” The man’s voice cut off as he crumpled to the ground. Bianca could dimly see light shining off the blade of the dagger Isabela had used to knock the man out.

Orana shook herself and continued up the path, stepping daintily around the fallen figure as Isabela bent over him, trussing him up and gagging him before she pulled him off the path where he wouldn’t be seen. The rest of them followed Orana, trusting Isabela to catch up.

And so it went, until they were in sight of the commanding tower that rose high into the sky. Bianca froze, staring at it. Her parents were in there? Despair filled her. They would never find them in there!

Warm hands closed over her upper arms, drawing her back against a firm chest. Freddy dipped his head, whispering into her ear, “Don’t worry. It looks larger than it is. All that stone? The walls are pretty thick, which means not as many rooms as it looks like from the outside.” He gave her a comforting little shake. “We’ll find them, all right?”

Bianca nodded, crossing her arms over her chest and covering his hands with her own. She turned her head, meaning to say ‘thank you’, and found her lips brushing his. Freddy appeared as surprised as she was, stepping away immediately with an apology, and she filed away the warmth and the sudden desire to kiss him again to be considered later.

Orana had withdrawn; she had no combat skills that Bianca was aware of, and it had been determined that whatever happened to the rest of them, Orana was best off going back into the village to wait for the mages and whatever support Teyrn Fergus would send. She had transferred the elfroot and poultices in her basket to a pack strapped to Isabela’s back, and now she turned and drifted back down the path, occasionally darting to the side to pluck a leaf or a flower. Bianca hoped the little elf wouldn’t get into trouble. Part of her wondered if someone shouldn’t stay back to watch over Orana, but she knew none of the assembled company would consent to be left behind that way. Well, except Freddy, and as a new Templar recruit, he was their best in.

She hung back in the darkness with Varric now as Freddy approached the two guards on either side of the heavy doors. Isabela had disappeared into the shadows, and Bianca itched to ask Varric where the pirate had gone, but she knew better—they couldn’t risk any sound right now.

Freddy was being his charming self, countering the suspicious questions of the Templar guards with just enough obtuse innocence to make him seem harmless.

“Come on, fellows,” he whined. “Can’t you just let me in for a minute? I always wanted to see a real mage.”

“You’re not man enough for a real mage, kid. Come back when you’ve grown some hair on your balls.” The two guards chuckled at the attempted witticism.

“Never learn unless you try, right?” Freddy asked brightly.

The Templars looked at each other, then back at Freddy. “Can’t see what harm it’d do. Little one on the second floor could do him right up.”

“They wouldn’t like it,” the second one said, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “Not with—the project. You know.”

Bianca was sickeningly afraid that her parents were the project being alluded to. She reached out, clutching Varric’s shoulder, and he squeezed her hand reassuringly, although she noticed that the elder Bianca’s nose was pointed directly at the first Templar.

“Tell you what, kid,” the first Templar was saying, “you come in for a minute and we’ll give you a glimpse of a mage. Then you go away quietly and we don’t tell your superiors you were up here without permission. And out of armor, too,” he added, glaring at Freddy’s leathers.

Freddy agreed readily to the plan, and he went inside the building with the first Templar. The next minute, a long pair of booted legs were wrapped around the neck of the second Templar, squeezing until he slumped quietly to the ground. Isabela let herself down and slipped in the door after the other two.

“Now, Princess,” Varric whispered, and they hurried across the courtyard and inside the Aeonar.

Bianca stopped short, looking around her at the cold, stark stone that was everywhere—up the walls, across the high ceilings, down the endless, curving hall. Only Varric’s impatient tug at her sleeve reminded her of the precariousness of their situation. The sheer size and the forbidding chill of the rock were overwhelming. Like being inside a golem, she thought, following Varric carefully. Inside the hall there were few shadows, because there were no corners. Over the scuff of her soft-soled leather boots on the hard floor, which was a small noise but sounded deafening to her ears, Bianca could hear snoring coming from one room they passed, and a loud argument from another. Templars, she thought, and couldn’t decide if she was afraid of being caught, or if she wanted to be caught and kill them all for whatever they might have done to her parents.

And then it struck her that tonight, assuming all went well—and she was with Isabela and Varric, so that seemed a reasonable assumption—she would be together with both of her parents for the first time in what seemed like an age. Tears stung her eyes and she nearly stumbled over a jutting piece of stone as her vision blurred, an intense longing filling her. All she wanted, all she really wanted, was to be with them right now. Moving ahead, following Varric as best she could, she prayed to the Maker that they were alive and well, because she didn’t know what she’d do if they weren’t.


	38. Mage Reawakened

Evelyn hovered over Fenris as the elf mage knelt next to him, her hands held over the gaping wound in his side. “Hurry!” Evelyn said. “Hurry! What are you waiting for?”

The elf was shaking, and nothing was happening. She wrung her hands together.

Stifling an urge to shake the other woman, Evelyn urged, “Stop dithering! Hurry up!”

“Hawke.” Fenris’s voice was a hoarse croak, and he coughed slightly, causing blood to pulse from the wound. “No one … can work … while … being shouted at.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to shout that he was wrong, but Evelyn caught herself, because he wasn’t. “I’m sorry,” she said, taking a step back from the elf mage. “You’re doing the best you can, I can see that.”

The mage nodded, clearly terrified. “Is this—are you real?” she asked, looking up at Evelyn. “Because … not everything is.”

“What advantage would there be to the Templars in staging a scenario such as this one?” Evelyn asked, holding her impatience back with everything she had.

The elf mage’s eyes filled with tears. “Hope. If you were here, then there would be hope that someone could fight back against them.”

“Someone can. Someone has! Help us, please.” Evelyn could feel tears stinging her eyes. Fenris’s pallor was increasing, his breathing slowing.

“What’s … your name?” he asked the elf, with difficulty.

“Lenira.”

“I am … Fenris. This … is Hawke.”

The elf, Lenira, looked up. “I’ve heard that name. Somewhere.”

“A long time ago, they called me the Champion of Kirkwall. It’s because of decisions I made then that we’re here today, and I am so sorry.” Her voice broke on the last words as she looked at Fenris. “Please, Lenira, can’t you help him?”

Lenira looked at Hawke for a long moment, then down at her hands. “It’s been so long. What if I can’t?”

Hawke wanted to grab the elf, to scream at her, but they were beyond that. “The way I see it,” she said slowly, calmly, “is that you have three choices. You can stay here and be the Templars’ plaything, knowing they’ve broken you so thoroughly you wouldn’t even try to save someone’s life. You can let him die and then I’ll kill you. Or you can heal him and come with us, out there where anywhere is better than this cell.”

The elf’s hands spread to the limits, the tendons straining, as she stared at them. “I used to be so proud of the power in these,” she whispered. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to be able to stretch out your hands and cause the very rocks to rise up and attack your assailant? Or to be able to feel a torn muscle with your fingers and repair it without ever touching the person?”

“No. Can’t say that I do. My sister got all the magic in my family,” Hawke answered coolly. She’d heard these rhapsodies from Bethany before, more than enough times for one life. “Can you do it, or not?”

“I—I’ll try.”

The answer came none too soon. As Lenira let her fingers relax, holding her hands above Fenris’s wound, his head lolled to the side, his eyes closing even as the first faint healing light began to glow under the mage’s palms. Hawke went down on her knees next to him with a cry of despair. “Fenris!” Then, again, “Fenris!” When there was no response, she bent lower, her face close to his. “Damn it, elf, don’t you dare leave me again. I’ve lost count of how many times it’s been, and I’m not having it, do you hear me? Don’t you even think about it.”

Lenira looked up, a frown forming across her forehead.

Evelyn ignored her in favor of continuing to try to get through to Fenris. “You know if you do this, I’m coming after you. I’m not letting you go traipsing off into the Fade without me and lounge around at the Maker’s side, so you can just think again, buddy. Don’t make me have to kick your ass.”

The pale blue glow around his wound didn’t seem to be doing much; it was still angry and gaping and red, although the red was tinged with black at the edges as the blood clotted. Lenira said, softly, “If it was me, I’d be afraid to come back.”

“What?”

“You … um … could try being a little nicer.”

“No. No, I couldn’t,” Hawke said, her eyes on Fenris’s still, pale face. “I’ve been yelling at this stubborn elf for twenty years and more; I’m not about to stop now. And he richly deserves it, anyway. It’s his fault we’re in this mess in the first place, and I’m not about to let him die on me and leave me to face the consequences without him. Anything but that,” she added, her voice cracking.

“Wait. You—and he—are …?” Lenira looked surprised. She sat back on her heels and stretched her hands out. “I’m sorry,” she said before Hawke could complain. “I don’t have the stamina I used to.”

Evelyn nodded, stroking Fenris’s shaggy shorn hair. “I’ve never loved anyone else. It’s always been him. I don’t know how to live without him—I never have.”

“I know who you are now,” Lenira said. “You’re Merrill’s friend from Kirkwall.”

“You know Merrill?” At this she did look up, watching the dark-haired elf as she bent over Fenris’s wound again.

“I’m from the alienage. The Templars caught me outside of Denerim. For a while we were relatively safe from them—King Alistair kept the Chantry out of Ferelden for a long time—but eventually, with all the upheaval … and King Duncan just isn’t the man his father was. He’ll be a good king in time, but … not quite yet.” She didn’t seem to be aware that she was bouncing from topic to topic, as she concentrated on the magic at her fingertips.

“I remember Alistair. He was a good man. Quite the fighter, too.” Evelyn couldn’t help but smile at the memory. “We fought a dragon together.”

“I see where Merrill got her stories.”

Fenris gasped, his eyes fluttering.

“Keep doing that!” Evelyn said urgently. “Please!”

Lenira nodded, the stream of conversation stopping as she poured all her energy into the healing. At last she sank back, her head falling back on her shoulders, her eyes closing. “I’d forgotten the rush,” she said softly. “They haven’t let me use my magic in so long, I had almost forgotten what it meant to be a mage. I’m so tired, but it feels so good.”

Fenris groaned. Slowly his eyes opened, seeking and finding Hawke’s, and a slow smile spread across his face. “I will not ask how you intended to reach the Fade in pursuit of me. It is enough to know that you would have.” He reached for her hand.

“I mean it,” Evelyn whispered, blinking the wetness away from her eyes and striving for a brisk, no-nonsense tone. “I don’t know how to live without you, and I’m too old to learn now.”

He tugged at her hand, pulling her closer until their lips met. As Evelyn drew away, he whispered, “You will never have to. I swear it.”

Lenira looked carefully away from the intimate moment, but suddenly she and Fenris both jerked their heads in the direction of the door.

“They’re coming,” Lenira said.

“Can you stand?” Evelyn asked Fenris. He nodded, clinging to her hand as she helped him to his feet. “What about your abilities, are those in working order?”

He activated the lyrium. It flickered, but held. “They appear to be functional.”

“Lenira? You can come with us. Or, I suppose, you could stay here and wait for the Templars.”

The elf snorted in laughter. The use of her magic appeared to have awakened something in her. “Not much of a choice there. Guess I’ll come with you.”

Fenris glanced at her, a shadow of his old distrust of magic crossing his face, but appeared to decide that now was not the time. “Very well. Do you need anything from your cell?”

“Hardly.”

“Then let’s go,” Hawke said, already at the door.

Fenris stiffened, his ears twitching. “It may well be too late.”


	39. Come Together

“They’re that close?” Hawke asked, looking from one elf to the other. She couldn’t hear the Templars approaching, but she believed, from the tension in their bodies and their intent, listening looks, that they could. “What will we do?”

Lenira gave them both panicked, almost accusing glances. “’We’ now, is it? I was minding my own business until you two came along.”

“Yes, because waiting for the Templars to come and torture you is so much better.”

“Better than knowing they’re coming to torture me? Yeah, I’d say so.”

Hawke wasn’t sure, but she thought she might have liked the mage better when she was still terrified and speechless. “Then you go.”

“What?”

“You go. We’ll hold them off.”

“Why would you do that?” Lenira was staring at both of them. It was evident that all her initial distrust had flooded back.

“Because we have experience fighting together, but you’re an unknown quantity,” Hawke snapped.

“Yes, I can see where all your experience came in.” Lenira glanced at Fenris’s side, the torn leather heavily stained with his blood.

“Shhh,” Fenris said sharply. His eyes were riveted to the door. “Something is amiss. Those … Hmmm.” He went silent, frowning in concentration.

Evelyn was anxious to know what it was he was hearing, but she didn’t want to disrupt his listening by asking for details. He would give her those as soon as he was sure of what he thought. Lenira had less restraint; no doubt the experience of being able to talk freely to someone who wasn’t a Templar was a novelty.

“What is it?” Lenira bounced up and down on her toes, too busy fidgeting to stop and listen for herself.

Fenris frowned at her and held a hand up for silence.

“Oops. Sorry,” the mage said in a loud whisper. “What is it?”

Rolling his eyes, Fenris shook his head, turning his head in the direction the sound was coming from. “Too slow to be Templars. And closer than I had imagined at first,” he said softly.

“Too slow to be Templars?” Lenira said. “Who else would it be?”

Hawke and Fenris locked eyes, the same thought in both their heads: Varric. If anyone could storm the Aeonar, Varric could. Or, at least, he could have once upon a time. It had been long years of sitting comfortably in the Hanged Man with his feet up, spinning tales. Hawke resolutely tamped down her rising hopes. It was best to prepare for the worst in a situation like this. What would the worst be? That the Templars had made an error with a mage and created an abomination? Or more than one, possibly. Abominations would walk more slowly than Templars. Yes, best to plan for abominations, she thought, and then looked around her helplessly, realizing that it didn’t matter what was coming—all she had at her disposal was an injured Fenris, a shaky mage, and her own weakened body and atrophied skills.

It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough, she told herself with determination. She could hear the footsteps herself, now, soft and light but evident if you listened carefully enough … and if you knew what to listen for, which she did, having been taught by both Varric and Isabela. It was hard not to keep her hopes from leaping in her chest, because she could have sworn she knew those particular footfalls, the soft soles of a pair of high leather boots meeting the floor as lightly as possible.

A glance at Fenris told Evelyn he was hearing what she was, but neither of them moved, fearing a trap set by Keran. He seemed cunning—or crazy—enough to manage it. Either way, Evelyn had no intention of jumping out and disclosing her presence … not that it would be hard to find them. Fenris had left a trail of blood all the way here, she thought. It sickened her to think of it, how close she had come to losing him. If they hadn’t found the mage … if they hadn’t been able to get those cuffs off her … if Lenira hadn’t found the strength to heal him … Evelyn reached out, grasping his hand. Fenris looked startled for a moment, but he must have read her thoughts in her face, because he smiled reassuringly at her and squeezed her hand.

The footsteps slowed as they neared the door. Evelyn strained to hear what was happening in the hall, looking anxiously at Fenris. He was frowning, staring at the door, deep in concentration.

“That’s a woman!” Lenira said, her own ears twitching a bit. “Are there women Templars?”

“At least one,” Evelyn said. She held a finger up to her lips to indicate that the mage shouldn’t talk while Fenris was trying to listen. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest as Fenris’s expression lit, his green eyes practically glowing. He hurried across the chamber and had the door open before Evelyn could call to him to stop, to slow down, to consider more carefully the possibility that it was a trap.

Fenris leaned out, gesturing to whoever was in the hall to hurry inside the cell before they were seen. Evelyn could hardly stand the suspense, but she knew it was safest if whoever it was came inside the cell, rather than all of them trooping out. It would be easier to make a game plan from inside.

Isabela was the first around the door, her sharp eyes taking in the room and no doubt finding any potential escape hatches. Hopefully so, anyway, Evelyn thought. If anyone could find a way to escape one of these cells, it would be Isabela. Next—

Evelyn heard herself give a choked sob of relief and happiness when she spied her dearest friend’s scruffy, unshaven face around the door. She could have fallen to her knees and hugged him, if she hadn’t known how much he hated that kind of thing. Not the hugging, so much, but certainly when someone tried to put themselves down on his level.

The third person was young Freddy, and she gave him a smile, glad he had come along.

Fenris was still in the doorway, waiting for the last person, and then Evelyn saw the familiar glossy black head and heard the well-loved voice whisper “Papa” through happy tears. Her husband and their daughter were embracing—at last—and they were all together again, the way it should be. Evelyn pushed her way across the room toward them, putting her arms around them both. Fenris had the presence of mind to pull the door closed again behind them, and then they were all three hugging and crying and stepping back to look at one another while everyone else watched them with fond indulgence.

Soon enough they would all have to be back in full battle-plan mode, but for now, Evelyn was going to hold on to her family now that she had them again, and that was more than enough.


	40. Best-Laid Plans

After a long while, Fenris and Evelyn and Bianca pulled out of their hug, looking around the room with unashamedly tear-stained faces.

Isabela lounged against the stone wall, smirking at them. “I see he found you.” She quirked an eyebrow at Hawke. “And you forgave him.”

“Was there ever any doubt?” Hawke asked.

“Some people had their concerns.” Isabela winked at Varric.

“Aunt Bethany among them,” Bianca put in with some irritation.

Fenris nodded. “She has her reasons.”

“Couldn’t be because you called her names the first time you met her, could it, elf?” Varric asked.

“Possibly so.”

“You’d think she’d forget about that eventually.” Evelyn sighed. “It’s not as though Fenris is the only person who ever insulted her.”

“He’s the only one who ever capped off the insult by … capping off her sister.” Isabela’s eyes twinkled. “She’ll get over it, once she sees you safe and sound.”

“Where is Bethany?”

Isabela pushed herself off the wall, staring incredulously at Hawke. “You think I’d let her waltz into this place, filled with people who want to kill her—or worse? You’re cracked in the head.”

“She tried to come, Hawke,” Varric put in, “and was quashed pretty firmly.”

“We left Kethali and … Aunt Varania behind, too,” Bianca said softly.

“Varania?” Hawke’s eyes widened. She turned to Fenris. “You never told me your sister came with you.”

He flushed. “We … ah … had more important things to speak about?”

Translated, of course, that meant that he hadn’t wanted to admit that he’d brought the full weight of his slavery along with him, as well as all the dark baggage of his memories, or lack thereof. “We won’t always have more important things to talk about,” Hawke said warningly.

Bianca was looking between the two of them, her eyes filling with tears. “Please don’t fight,” she whispered.

“We won’t,” Hawke assured her daughter, “as long as your father agrees with me.”

Fenris’s mouth stretched in a smile, but his eyes didn’t light. “No doubt there will be strong words, but that is nothing new.”

Silence descended on the room, before a small “ahem” broke it. Hawke turned, startled, to see Lenira, about whom she had entirely forgotten. “Ah, yes. Our savior. Everyone, this is Lenira. Lenira, this is our daughter Bianca, Isabela, Varric, and Freddy.”

The mage nodded, bobbing a small curtsy that seemed odd in the tiny, overfilled cell.

“Looks like you had quite the scrap, Hawke. Couldn’t wait for us?” Varric asked, nodding toward the torn and bloodied leather of Fenris’s armor.

“What can I say, Varric, fashionably late doesn’t cut it in the Aeonar.”

Freddy cleared his throat quietly. “Shouldn’t we be leaving now?”

“I do not believe it will be that simple.” Fenris’s eyes were trained on the door, worry shadowing the clear green. “The Templars will know we were never brought to them.”

“And you left a trail of blood a mile wide,” Hawke added.

“I wasn’t going to mention it, but that was pretty amateur.” Varric raised his eyebrows.

“Remember when I complained about you being fashionably late?”

“Right. Sorry about that.”

“How is Orana?” Fenris asked. “Is she suspected?”

Isabela shook her head in a sharp negative. “Not unless they’re better actors than I give them credit for.”

“That is a relief. She should not have to suffer for her valiance on our behalf.”

“She won’t, if we can all get moving.” Varric’s voice was uncharacteristically sharp, and Hawke looked over at him. Her friend seemed frazzled; had he truly been that concerned for her welfare?

“I’m with the dwarf,” Isabela said. “Time to go while we still can.”

“They’re coming.” Lenira’s whisper was only just loud enough to be heard, but it stopped all of them, their heads snapping in the elf’s direction. “They’re coming,” she said again, her voice shaking and ready to crack.

“Let’s go,” Freddy said impatiently. He swung open the door and moved out into the hallway.

“Go with him,” Fenris said to his daughter. His tone brooked no argument, and Freddy reaached for her hand, practically yanking her out of the room. Bianca’s eyes filled with tears, but none of the adults’ faces softened in the slightest, and she turned and ran with Freddy. They turned the corner into the stairwell, moving swiftly, as the older people followed more slowly. Fenris was still limping, Hawke and Lenira were barefoot. Further, without needing to speak they were in agreement that Freddy and Bianca needed time to get away; they would face what was coming the way they had so many times before. Lenira was an unknown quantity, and Fenris resolved to keep a sharp eye on the mage.

Before they could reach the stairs, a phalanx of Templars appeared, ranging themselves across the hallway.

“Make it easy on yourselves. Give up now.” Keran’s familiar voice, buried in the back of the mob of Templars, made Hawke nauseous. It made Lenira began to shiver, the little elf’s body practically vibrating in terror.

“’Give up’? I’m not sure I’m familiar with that one,” Isabela said. Her hands were on her hips, and Fenris knew quite a few daggers lay within a single movement in that pose.

“I think you will be.” Keran’s voice was coming closer; he sounded as though he were moving through the group of Templars. There were clanking noises as they shifted to let him by. “I can be very persuasive,” he said, and the two Templars in front stepped aside for him. He stood between them, holding Orana. Her hands were tied behind her back, she was gagged, her face bloodied as though she’d been hit at least once, and her eyes were wide in her small face.

A gasp escaped Varric’s lips, and he lifted his hand toward Bianca.

“One more move, dwarf, and very bad things will be happening here.” It was clear Keran wasn’t bluffing, his voice steely and completely devoid of any of the genial nonchalance he had previously affected.

“Don’t hurt her,” Varric whispered.

“He won’t,” said another voice, and Cullen stepped into view behind Keran. “Not if you all cooperate.”


	41. Strength and Weakness

“Freddy, stop!” Bianca hissed, pulling at his wrist, but he kept going, dragging her behind him as he moved nimbly from shadow to shadow. “They have Orana!”

He did stop at that, turning to her, his eyes blazing. “What can we do about that now?”

“We can go back! We can help her!”

“We’ll get her killed, and everyone else, too. They’re trusting us to get away.”

“I need to help!”

“You are. Now shut up!”

Bianca’s jaw sagged at the tone of his voice—he’d never spoken to her like that before. But then she heard what he had been hearing: the sounds of metal boots on the cobblestone floors, coming toward them. Freddy jerked his head toward a door down the hall, and she nodded.

They ducked into the room, which fortunately turned out to be storage. Wine, from the smell of the barrels. Freddy mouthed a curse when he saw that the one window was high up and barred. But Bianca, her elf-blooded eyesight slightly keener than his, could see that there was mortar crumbling around the base of one of the bars. She judged the space, and was glad for her own slenderness. If she could get up there …

Freddy followed the direction of her gaze and nodded. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and Bianca tracked their movement as he determined how best to get her up to the window. They really couldn’t move the wine barrels, because it would make too much noise dragging them across the floor. None of the barrels were placed directly under the window, but one was just to the left. If Freddy climbed on that one, and she got on his shoulders and leaned over, she might be able to work the bar free. Freddy raised his eyebrows at her in question, and Bianca nodded.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
“Cullen, let her go. You don’t need her, or any of these people.”

“They are the ones who intruded themselves upon us, Hawke. We never asked for their presence.” He sounded so tired. Hawke found herself pitying him for the situation he found himself in—or she did until Fenris shifted restlessly near her, giving an impatient growl under his breath, and she remembered what Fenris had said of Cullen.

“Look at this,” Keran said loudly, looked around at all of them in satisfaction. “Serah Hawke’s formidable team, undone by one little helpless elf.”

Orana’s eyes shifted downward, meeting Varric’s gaze, and the dwarf gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of the head. Hawke noticed it, but she didn’t think Fenris or Isabela had, and certainly none of the Templars. Orana held herself very still in Keran’s grasp, appearing frozen in fear.

“I wouldn’t exactly call us undone,” Hawke said. “Just cautious. What do you intend to do with her?”

“Does it matter? One knife-ear more or less, who cares?”

Hawke was about to answer, when a small voice came from her left. “I do.” Lenira’s voice was thin and quavering. She was shaking, fine tremors vibrating her limbs. Her fists were clenched at her side and sweat was pouring down her forehead.

“Stop her!” Fenris shouted.

But it was too late. Lenira fell to her knees, groaning, and when she stood up an abomination had taken her place. It shambled toward the Templars, growling. Keran, with a malicious glance at Hawke, shoved Orana practically into the abomination’s arms.

“NO!” Varric practically screamed the word, and Bianca’s voice followed his in staccato shots.

The Templars were ranging in battle formation, and Orana was falling to her knees, thrown off-balance by Keran’s push. The abomination roared in pain as Bianca’s silver quarrels embedded themselves in its back, but it didn’t slow. Hawke had her blade out, but Fenris was faster, his lyrium lighting the hallway as he buried his fist in the abomination’s back and ripped out its spine. It fell to its knees, barely missing Orana, who scrambled to the side to get away from the hideous thing.

Fenris stood looking down at what had once been a mage, the bloody spine still in his hand. Hawke, as always when she witnessed these transformations, was shocked at how quickly the demon could take over. One minute a strong mage, fighting for existence, and as soon as the mage gave up … everything they had been disappeared. She thought of her sister, and her father, and was grateful for the strength both of them displayed. But taken alone, imprisoned the way Lenira had been, would either of them have endured such torture without cracking? She glared at Keran, but the Templar’s eyes were elsewhere, studying Fenris’s glowing lyrium markings with a greed and a hunger that made Hawke nauseous. She stepped closer to her husband.

“Stay away from him, Hawke.” Cullen’s voice was hoarse, and his eyes, too, were on Fenris.

“No.” She put a hand on Fenris’s arm. “Turn it off,” she said in an urgent whisper.

He wasn’t listening. His head had turned in Cullen’s direction when the Templar spoke, and his eyes were locked with Cullen’s. The air was crackling with tension, and with the smell of lyrium, more powerful than Evelyn had ever sensed it before. Was Fenris leaking the stuff?

“Somebody can’t hold his lyrium,” Isabela remarked from behind her, and Hawke looked down to see the blue liquid puddled on the floor at Keran’s feet. A vial of it had slipped from between his fingers as he stared greedily at Fenris. Were the Templars so dependent on lyrium that they would drink the very lyrium from Fenris’s veins? She shivered with fear and revulsion.

Orana got shakily to her feet, appearing oblivious to the Templars and to Fenris. She stumbled straight toward Varric, who held out his arms as she collapsed against him. Isabela said, “Huh,” but Hawke was too distracted to notice what was happening behind her. All she cared about was calming Fenris down enough to get his lyrium out of sight—and scent—of these ravenous Templars.  
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Bianca hung precariously from the window ledge, grateful for all of Aunt Isabela’s relentless strength training on the voyage. Much as she had hated all those hours pulling herself around through the rigging, they were paying off now. Getting through the window had not been a particular problem—the bar had come out easily enough, and she was slender enough to fit through fairly easily. But on the other side she had found no purchase at all in the tower wall, and below her was nothing but a steep drop to the edge of the cliff the tower perched atop, and much, much farther down, the cold waves of the ocean.

Freddy would not be able to follow her through the window, so he would remain in the tower and search for a way to unobtrusively add himself to the ranks of the Templars. Even out of armor, he hoped they wouldn’t be suspicious of him since he was a new recruit. At the very least, he felt he could skulk around and try to help some mages escape, or steal equipment that he might be able to sneak to Bianca’s mother, who seemed so vulnerable in her thin shirt and pants, armed with nothing but a dagger. It was a new image of her mother for Bianca, so used to seeing Hawke in command, both of herself and of the situation. The small, practically naked armorless woman she had left behind was a different person, and Bianca feared for her safety.

Somehow, she had to get down from here, to reach her aunts and Kethali, and to find a way to free her parents. Gritting her teeth with determination, Bianca began searching for a fingerhold in the wall.


	42. Combat and Comrades

For a moment, it seemed the tension between the two groups would ease. Hawke, her hand on Fenris’s arm, could feel the muscles there start to relax, and as the glow of his markings began to fade, the Templars’ focus on him lost some of its intensity.

Then the tall, gaunt Templar on the far right of the group stepped forward. “Hawke—“

When he heard her name on Cullen’s lips, the muscles in Fenris’s arm tightened beneath Hawke’s hand, and his lyrium blazed to life, illuminating the hallway. It was so powerful Hawke could hear a mage moan in one of the cells along the hall, and the Templars, almost as one, hungrily sniffed the air.

One moved, shifting his weight, and as lightly and noiselessly as a feather, a tiny dagger flew through the air and embedded itself in his eye through the slit in his helmet. The practiced speed of the throw told Hawke all she needed to know about Isabela’s tension level. The pirate had moved into that state of readiness that said she felt deathly danger closing around them.

Behind her, Hawke could hear a faint movement and she glanced over her shoulder to see Varric pushing in front of Orana, and he did something so unlike him that at first she thought she must be hallucinating: he put Bianca into Orana’s delicate hands. And to Hawke’s further surprise, the little elf seemed neither startled nor discomfited by the dwarf’s action. Bianca ratcheted in her hands as naturally as if they had practiced together for hours.

Hawke couldn’t take time to consider the ramifications of that surprise, however; the Templars were surging into action. For the first time in a long while, Hawke’s innate battlefield clarity came back to her. She ducked to the side, her back against the wall so she couldn’t be flanked, and took the moment before she was rushed by the Templars to take stock of the situation. Isabela had disappeared into the darkness; soon a Templar fell near the back of the group. There were six more of them, plus Cullen and Keran. Orana was braced against the wall on the other side of the hallway, Bianca held in front of her. The crossbow was silent for the moment, but poised to send the silver shafts of her voice into anyone who approached the elf. Orana’s hands were steady, her face set.

Varric, left without Bianca in his hands for the first time in all the fights he and Hawke had been in together, was armed with two daggers. It was a startling look for him, but he didn’t seem at all discomfited by the change in weaponry. His height made it easy for him to find the gaps in the heavy skirts the Templars wore, and as Hawke watched, a Templar stumbled and fell as one of Varric’s daggers sliced open his inner thigh. The dwarf finished him off quickly. 

Fenris was distinguishable on the other side of the group of Templars only because of the glow of his markings. He had closed with Cullen, with Keran moving in on his side. Hawke wanted to fight her way to his side, but two Templars were converging on her position and she turned her attention to them. The dagger felt small and insubstantial in her hands—used to the longer reach and greater heft of her sword, she was off-balance in combat with this short, light weapon. She caught one Templar’s sword on the blade, turning it aside with some difficulty, and then jerked her shoulder away from the wall just in time to avoid it being skewered by the sword of the other Templar. With no armor, she couldn’t kick or punch them, and she didn’t dare expose her head by attempting a head-butt. Their thick metal chest plates would give her a concussion if she tried, anyway, she thought. There weren’t many openings in their armor, either, which meant she would have to be very fast and very accurate if she intended to land a blow on either of them, and doing so would no doubt expose her to the blade of the other one. The only thing for it was to hold them off until one of the others was free to come to her aid. Her own helplessness filled her with panic—she wanted to scream, or cry, and knew she could not afford to do either of those things. The very fact that she could admit to such a need in the midst of combat told her much about her lack of readiness for this situation, and she took a deep breath to try to recenter herself in battle mode.

A smothered groan from Fenris’s direction distracted her; Hawke’s quick turn of the head to try to see what had happened opened her stomach to a blow from a heavily gauntleted fist, and she doubled over. It was fortunate that she did, because the other Templar’s sword clanged against the wall just above her head. They had clearly not practiced fighting as a team, these two, and she wondered dazedly if there was a way to exploit that. She reached out to grasp one Templar’s leg and jerk it towards her, knocking him off balance and sending him staggering into his companion. While they were trying to right themselves, she struck the inside of the first one’s elbow, just at the joint, with the pommel of her dagger. She used all the strength she had, the force of the blow jarring her own arm, but it caused him to lose his grip on his sword. Hawke caught it by the blade as it fell, cutting gashes in her fingers before she could get it properly situated in her grasp.

It wasn’t her usual greatsword, but it would do. For now.

The hallway echoed with the ring of metal on metal and with the grunts and groans of people swinging and being hit by blades. Hawke parried a blow from the armed Templar’s sword with hers and caught another punch from the other one with her dagger. Her arm, still tingling, felt numb with the impact, and it was all she could do to hold on to the dagger. Fighting with two blades had never been her style, and with one arm impaired her situation was far, far from ideal, but it was still better than the single dagger.

Over the Templar’s shoulder, she saw another one fall to Varric, and she could hear Isabela’s steady stream of patter as the pirate held off a Templar. How she did that with an endless array of daggers tucked into her clothes and her cleavage hanging out, and yet managed to stay so remarkably unscathed, Hawke had never figured out. Bianca’s sharp, sweet voice sang once over the din, and a Templar reeled, holding his head where the barb had struck against the helmet. That would leave quite the headache, Hawke imagined. Or it would have, if Varric hadn’t immediately pounced on the fallen man and finished him off.

Isabela’s Templar gave a groan and fell to his knees, clutching at his heart. Some of the pirate’s specially brewed poison had found its way into the Templar’s veins. Varric and Isabela converged on the two Templars who were menacing Hawke. Between the three of them, the Templars didn’t last long. As the last one fell, toppling over with his eyes glazed, death finding him even as he dropped, Hawke looked past him toward Fenris. She hadn’t been able to follow the progress of his fight, so caught up in her own.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Bianca’s soft shoes hit ground at last. It had seemed like an eternity, inching her way so carefully down the side of the tower, unable to see where she was reaching in the darkness, unable to look down to see what was beneath her feet or how much farther she had to go. She had worked slowly around the side of the tower to reach the ground, finally making it as dawn was beginning to turn the sky a soft, pearly grey. Stretching her arms and legs, fingers and toes cramped from curling into practically nonexistent crevices and cracks, she ducked into the shadow of the tower, looking hastily around. She was at the back, hidden in some surprisingly tall weeds. Why wouldn’t they cut these, to keep people from using the foliage as cover, the way she was doing? Had they grown careless, assuming no one could escape?

The question was, having escaped, what was she to do? She was stranded here in the midst of a village full of Templars, and the only people she trusted, or could go to for help, were back inside. They had left the mages too far down the road for any assistance to come from that direction. The townspeople wouldn’t help her family, not even if there were any actual civilians down there. It wouldn’t pay to go against the Templars.

Well, nothing would happen while she lurked here. She pushed herself out of the brush, dashing for a small stand of scrubby trees nearby. They didn’t offer much cover, but it enough to pause in and look for the next hiding spot on her way down the mountain. There would be Templars patrolling along the outside of the tower soon, if they weren’t already on the move toward her hiding place.

Tucking herself into the shadows under the branches, she searched the base of the tower, watching for guards.

“They’re not coming.”

The voice from above her head made Bianca start, painfully banging her head on a low-lying branch. She looked up, but all she could see above her head was a pair of dirty bare feet. Slowly she began crawling backward out from under the trees, hoping whoever it was wouldn’t notice.

“You don’t have to run from me, Bianca Vael. I’m here to help you.”

“Who are you?” Bianca held still, but she remained poised to move on a moment’s notice.

“I’m an old friend.” The person climbed nimbly down from the tree branch she’d been sitting on, chatting all the way. Her voice had a chirpy quality, like a bird’s. “I’ve been waiting for you to come out. I knew Hawke would send you away—she wouldn’t have let you go inside in the first place if she’d had her way. Wonderful woman, Hawke, but too protective. Of course, she would be, having lost so much.” Landing on the ground, the woman looked at Bianca. She was an elf, slight and nimble, her hair a dark salt-and-pepper grey. Tilting her head to the side, she asked, “Don’t you know me yet?”

Bianca blinked, frowning. Something about those eyes was familiar. And then the light dawned. “You’re Kethali’s mother. You’re Merrill!”


	43. Little Wolf

Bianca stared at the elf, whose cheerful smile never wavered. “You are, aren’t you? Did Kethali send you?”

“He sent for me, when you first arrived in Ferelden.” Merrill moved closer, peering at Bianca closely. “You look remarkably like Fenris. Or what he must have looked like before the Imperium turned his hair white.”

“So I’ve been told. By my aunt.”

“Is Bethany here?”

“Oh. Yes, Aunt Bethany is back with Kethali … and with my father’s sister, Varania.” She could hear her voice, mulish and petulant, and flushed with embarrassment that this old friend of her parents should hear her acting so childishly. But she couldn’t help it—if it hadn’t been for Varania, her mother would never have been in the Imperium in the first place to be captured and brought back to this terrible tower and turned into that frail old woman Bianca had left behind.

Merrill’s eyes were kind, as if she had followed Bianca’s thoughts. “You mustn’t judge them so harshly. They only know one way to handle the world.”

“Who?”

“Your parents. Both of them, always, head-on and full force.”

“What about you? Is that the way you handle the world?”

Merrill laughed. “No, never. That’s why I had to leave Kirkwall, in the end, before Hawke ended up determining the course of my life the way Marethari had already. But that was long before you were born, and you don’t need to hear the story of my life. You need my help.”

“Um …” Bianca looked at the slender woman in front of her. She looked as though a stiff wind would send her flying straight back to Kirkwall. But then she thought of Kethali, and his strength and the power of his magic, all of which he claimed had come from his mother. “Can you help? Please?”

“It’s why I came to you. And why I sent Kethali to you.” Merrill gave a short, sharp bark of a cough. “I owe your parents everything that I am, every day of the life I’ve had. It has been a blessed life, and I wish to return that blessing while I have the chance.” For a moment, her voice wavered, then she straightened her back and looked around her. “Where did you say you had left the other mages?”

“Back along the road. We feared to bring them to the Aeonar, in case the Templars caught them.”

“What most people don’t consider is why the Templars are Templars. They fear magic, and their worst fear is a trained mage who isn’t under their control. Or anyone’s.” Merrill looked up at the tower with an expression that made Bianca shiver. “Your parents, they are well?”

Bianca thought back to them—her father’s bloodied side, her mother so shrunken and small with no armor or sword. She shrugged, miserably mute in the face of the question. If Merrill had asked Mama and Papa the question, they would have said they were well, for sure … but she didn’t think they were.

Merrill must have seen some of the confusion and unhappiness in her face, because she came over to Bianca and draped an arm around her shoulders. “First, we find my son and your aunts. Then we go in there and get your parents. You’ll see. Somehow it will all come right. Where Hawke is concerned, it always does.”

It was on the tip of Bianca’s tongue to tell this strange elf that Hawke wasn’t exactly herself, but it wouldn’t have helped—Merrill had that look grown-ups got that said their past was all they could see, and there was no arguing with that look. Besides, believing the elf’s strong words made Bianca feel better, too. So she nodded, straightening her shoulders, and Merrill clapped her hands delightedly.

“See, now you look like Hawke, too!”

Bianca couldn’t help but smile.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Fenris had all he could do to hold off the two Templars. His eyes were locked with Cullen’s, both of them recognizing that there was no quarter to be given—this was until one of them was down for good. Nothing else would satisfy either one.

But Keran could not be ignored—he was insane, and therefore highly unpredictable. On the other hand, Keran very much wanted Fenris captured alive, his will broken, in order to perform tests on him, in order to use the accursed lyrium in his veins to the furtherance of the Templars’ work. This was an advantage for Fenris insofar as Keran would want to be careful not to cause permanent harm. Fenris had none of those qualms—while he had no general quarrel with the Templars’ mission of controlling mages, he wished to see these particular two Templars injured beyond recovery, writhing in pain at his feet.

“It doesn’t work when he’s in pain,” Keran was saying eagerly. “Hurt him, Cullen, and let’s see the light fade.”

Cullen didn’t bother to look at his subordinate. “If they told you that, they lied to you. I’ve seen him fight—the light doesn’t fade if he gets injured.”

“What?” Keran’s face darkened, and he jabbed at Fenris with his sword. “You lied to me?”

Not bothering to dignify the man’s petulance with a reply, Fenris dodged the blow, but it put him just off guard enough that Cullen’s mailed fist struck him full in the barely healed wound in his side. He groaned, pain stabbing through him. Apparently Lenira’s healing had not been complete—he could feel the wound opening again, and blood began to trickle from it.

“Oh, well done!” Keran exclaimed. Cullen didn’t say a word. He balled up his fist and hit Fenris again, this time in the shoulder.

That one hurt less. Fenris gritted his teeth against the throbbing pain in his side. He feinted a right and with his left hand stabbed the dagger toward the seam of Cullen’s armor under his arm.

Cullen caught the blow easily on his heavily plated upper arm, shoving Fenris back with the same motion. “It’s too late. You should never have come here; you should have left her with us. We would have taken care of her.”

“No, we wanted him. Yes. Yes, we did.” Keran’s blue eyes glittered feverishly as he looked Fenris up and down, licking his lips.

“You did. I wanted to keep Hawke safe, to protect her.”

“That is all I have ever wanted, as well,” Fenris said. He was panting, his breath coming hard. The wound had taken more out of him than he had been aware of.

“Right. That’s why you left her.” They stared at one another, neither able to look away or give an inch. Then Cullen whispered, “I would have taken better care of her than you ever did.”

Fenris couldn’t help but see Hawke’s eyes the first night he left her, all those years ago; Hawke falling to her knees outside that shack in Rivain; Hawke thin and worn and stripped of her armor in that chilly cell. Deep in his heart, he knew Cullen was right—he had not taken particularly good care of the fragile and beautiful bird entrusted to him. And from the depths of that despair, he felt the itch and tingle of the lyrium heating in his veins and barely heard his own animal growl as he phased through the heavy armor as though it had been butter and ripped the Templar’s jugular vein out with his teeth.

The blood nearly choked him, spurting up his nose and bathing his face, and he could taste it, hot and salty and metallic, going down his throat.

“The power,” moaned Keran, still standing next to him as he relinquished Cullen’s body and let it slide down the wall into the rapidly spreading pool of its own blood. “The power.” And then a powerful, metal-clad arm circled around Fenris’s throat and he could smell the sweat on Keran’s face as the blond Templar pulled him close against his body. “I will have you,” Keran promised, practically cooing. To Fenris’s intense discomfort, the Templar appeared to be speaking directly to the lyrium. He licked Fenris’s neck, the lyrium sparking with the contact.


	44. The Trees

As Bianca followed, Merrill moved toward the edge of the cliff, climbing among the rocks surprisingly nimbly for a woman of her age. At one point along the edge, giant rocks lay piled high into the sky, and Merrill was climbing those with no appearance of concern about how high above the ocean she was, or how slippery the rocks were. Once she reached the very top, she threw her head back and emitted the screech of a hawk, so realistically that Bianca looked around for a predatory bird.

Merrill repeated the cry at intervals for a few minutes, then sat down cross-legged on the top of the rock to wait. She leaned over and looked down at Bianca, waiting at the bottom of the stack of rocks. “Come up! You must see this view!”

Bianca hesitated. “What if I fall?”

Above her, Merrill’s narrow face contracted in a frown, but before she could speak, Bianca answered her own question.

“I know—Aunt Isabela would never have asked that question.” Keeping her aunt’s face and voice in mind, admonishing her and encouraging her, Bianca began slowly to pull herself up the rocks, thinking only about the next handhold and not about what would happen if she missed her grasp.

“There you are!” Merrill said approvingly when she stepped carefully onto the top rock. “You have to see this.”

“What?” But Bianca didn’t need Merrill to explain. As she pivoted to look out over the ocean she knew. The sun sparkled on the water far below, and the sea seemed to stretch to the ends of Thedas. The breeze played with the tendrils of hair that had escaped her long braid. “Inside,” she said, “it seems as though everything out the windows is gloomy and foggy and dreary. There’s … there’s no hope.”

“It’s meant that way. To make the mages feel as though the only choice is to stay where they are.” 

“Did you ever worry that Kethali would be taken away by the Chantry?”

Merrill shook her head, smiling brightly. “Not from Denerim. King Alistair kept Chantry influence to a minimum while he was on the throne.” Her smile faded as she looked over her shoulder at the hulking tower behind them. “He couldn’t quite manage to find and destroy this place, though. But now that Hawke is here … Now we can do it.”

The confidence in the elf’s voice made Bianca uneasy. Merrill hadn’t seen her mother in decades; she was imagining a young, powerful Hawke, not the small old woman inside. “That’s a lot of faith to put in one person.”

“And you think your mother is no longer up to the task, is that it?” Merrill’s green eyes twinkled, and she laughed, a charming, musical sound. “What has happened here, Bianca Vael?”

“My mother got captured by the Templars.”

“Yes. She did. Do you know what happens to most people who are captured by the Templars and brought here to this mythical prison that the rest of the world thinks can’t possibly exist?”

Bianca shook her head. Why couldn’t adults ever just come out and say what they meant instead of always having to play these guessing games?

Merrill must have sensed her impatience, because her tone, when she spoke again, was brisk. “Neither do I. Neither does anyone.” She peered closely at Bianca. “Don’t you see? Your mother was brought here, where everyone before her had disappeared, but she wasn’t lost. Because your father and the others came for her. That is Hawke’s gift—she attracts people who love her, and those who love her fight for her. I imagine you are seeing her now as a rather old woman, powerless before the Templars who took her, but she has great power. You just have to look for it in the right place.”

It was typical adult reasoning, grasping at answers in complex thoughts and sentiment, but it wasn’t getting Bianca’s parents out of that tower. She nodded politely at Merrill, who smiled warmly at her.

“You don’t see it now, but someday you will.”

Bianca didn’t have to answer, because Merrill stood up on the rock with a cry of happiness and waved her arms. In the forest surrounding the tower, which Bianca had imagined to be impassable because of the steep, rocky incline it grew on, there was movement. How Merrill knew the people making the movement were friendly and not Templars was beyond Bianca, but evidently the elf was certain.

The now-familiar figure of Kethali appeared, curly brown hair falling over his forehead. He brushed it back as he emerged from the trees, looking up at the rock. His face lit as he saw his mother and Bianca. Behind him came Aunt Bethany, moving slowly, and the unnatural bright blazing red of Aunt Varania’s hair bringing up the rear. She looked around her distrustfully. When her gaze landed on the tower, her eyes narrowed, glittering, and her thin lips curved in a cruel smile. Bianca shivered, chilled by all the ways in which her aunt looked like her father yet was his complete opposite.

“They are in there?” Varania asked abruptly as she reached the foot of the rocks.

Merrill was down on the ground in a moment; Bianca followed more carefully. “They’re in there. Father was wounded,” she said.

Varania’s eyebrows rose. “Was he, indeed? Well, what more can one ask from a daring rescue?”

“How badly?” Bethany asked, ignoring the other mage.

“In the side. They had a mage, someone they had rescued from a cell. She’d done some healing, but not enough.”

“We need to get inside,” Bethany said, turning to Merrill.

The elf looked up at the tower thoughtfully. “It can be arranged. I would quite enjoy it, although it seems a shame to have all the fun to ourselves.”

“Mother,” Kethali said in fond exasperation.

“Oh, no, you’re right, dear. This is no time to get lost in the greater victory over the more personal rescue mission. If only Anders could have been here for this! He’d have given so many speeches.”

He moved forward, putting a supportive arm around Merrill’s waist. “Are you sure you can manage this?”

“I’ll be fine, dear. You worry too much.”

Bianca watched with concern, Bethany and Varania with curiosity, as Merrill lifted her arms and began an incantation in a tongue Bianca thought must be Dalish. Kethali kept his arm around her, acting as her anchor as the power built around her.

“What is she doing?” Varania asked.

“Shh!” Kethali turned to glare at the Tevinter, who, surprisingly enough, looked a bit shame-faced and backed off.

A groaning sound came from the earth below them. The pile of rocks Bianca had just descended began to quiver, the smaller ones rolling off the top and down the cliff. Far down they must be splashing into the water, but Bianca couldn’t hear them over the sound of hundreds of tendrils of what looked like tree branches bursting through the soil and wrapping themselves around the tower.

“Stop! My parents are in there! And Varric, and Orana, and who knows how many mages,” she said, running forward to grab Merrill’s arm. Kethali glared at her and Bethany caught her around the waist and pulled her back.

“Merrill knows what she’s doing. And stopping her in mid-spell is the worst thing you can do. Just have faith.”

Faith? Who did Aunt Bethany think she was talking to? Bianca hadn’t been raised to believe in anything other than a strong sword arm—it was a little late for her to begin having faith now. But then, her parents’ other religion had been the past and the strength and courage of the friends they had fought alongside. Merrill had always been described as a good-hearted person with great power … at least, by Hawke.

The branches were winding their way up the tower, delicately picking out a rock here and a rock there and throwing them far off into the sea. As Bianca watched, her eyes wide, a branch picked out a window-sized rock, swelled to human size, and darted into the tower, emerging with a frightened man in tattered robes clinging to it.

“And if these mages have been tortured beyond their capacity to endure and they become abominations, what then?” Varania asked. The branch was slowly beginning to lower itself to the ground, the mage crying out as he held on for dear life.

“I imagine that’s where we come in,” Bethany said crisply, but there was excitement in her voice. She sounded far more like Isabela than she usually did, Bianca thought.

Merrill was trembling. “Bianca, help me!” Kethali called, and she ran to help him, putting her arms around Merrill’s thin form and holding her up as she continued to channel her energies into the seeking branches. More mages were emerging and being lowered to the ground, but not Bianca’s parents or any of the rest of their party. She knew better than to interrupt Merrill to ask, but the thought consumed her—where were her parents?


	45. Standoff

Hawke froze, seeing Fenris locked in Keran’s arms. The Templar was large and well-built, the armor making him appear even bigger, and in such close proximity Fenris’s elven slenderness looked like weakness. The wound in his side had opened. Hawke could see the blood trickling down his leg, slowly but steadily. His face and chest were simply coated in blood, as well, and Hawke’s heart almost stopped as she considered how severe a wound would have to be to give forth that much blood. Then she saw Cullen’s body with the throat torn out slumped against the wall. She mourned him—somewhere in there had been a good man once—but the relief that Fenris wasn’t badly injured was overwhelming.

Keran ran his tongue along the lyrium in Fenris’s neck, moaning in a way that made Hawke’s stomach churn.

“Let him go,” she called, her feet carrying her toward them of their own volition.

“Hawke!” Varric shouted behind her, just as Keran looked up.

“Not another step, or I’ll kill him.”

“No, you won’t. You want him for his powers. The lyrium doesn’t work the same if he’s dead,” she said automatically. Was that her voice, speaking so calmly about her own husband, as if he were an object? Maker, she missed their quiet life together.

“Then I’ll kill you.” Keran sounded, for once, utterly and completely sane.

“No,” Fenris moaned. The arm around his neck tightened and he gave a strangled gurgling sound that sent fear, sharp and cold, slicing through Hawke’s heart.

“Please, don’t hurt him,” she said, halting where she was. She hated sounding so helpless and ineffectual, and Keran could tell. He laughed.

What were Varric and Isabela doing behind her? This was just the kind of situation Isabela was used to disarming by disappearing into the shadows and reappearing with a dagger to the mark’s throat; or that Bianca’s sudden shout could end with a silver barb. Then she remembered that Orana held Bianca in her hands, the first time Varric had ever allowed anyone else to handle the crossbow in all the time Hawke had known him. This was no time to wonder about that sudden inexplicable decision, but someday, when there was time, she would have to get some answers from her best friend.

Keran’s thoughts had drifted the same direction Hawke’s had, apparently, because suddenly he barked, “One move, pirate, and it’ll be your last.”

“Don’t know if you’ve noticed, buckethead, but your friends are dead.”

Isabela’s voice was wonderfully reassuring. Hawke took another step closer to Keran, who tightened his arm around Fenris’s neck in response. The elf’s breathing was already constricted. Hawke knew the Templar wouldn’t kill him, she was as sure of it as she was of her own name, but she couldn’t make herself take that next step, too afraid that in his unpredictability Keran would lose control of himself and of his own goals.

Keran was breathing heavily, too, almost as if he were the one being strangled. “You think there aren’t more? The Templars are the most powerful force on Thedas. Our armies cover the world; we are legion! Kill as many as you can, there will always be more of us, always keeping the mages in their place. You cannot stop us!”

“Somebody’s a bit behind the times,” Varric observed. “What you say was true once … but not since Blondie blew up the Chantry. You’re shrinking. You’re part of a dying system, and you don’t even know it. Give it up, kid.”

Whatever Keran was about to say was lost as the tower began to shake. Hawke lost her footing, stumbling and slamming her shoulder painfully into the wall.

“What was that?” Varric asked sharply. “Earthquake?”

“Awfully convenient timing for something all natural,” Isabela said. She smirked at Keran. “I think your houseguests are getting restless.”

“Impossible!” His blue eyes were wide and panic-stricken, but his grip around Fenris’s throat remained rock solid. “They cannot do magic in their cells; they wear bracers to ensure such a thing.”

Hawke could hear wailings from inside some of the cells, and the pounding of metal-booted feet on stone floors above and below her. The remaining Templars in the building were getting restless, she imagined. Strange scraping sounds came from the side of the tower opposite them.

“I think someone’s years of dark deeds are coming back to haunt them,” Isabela continued, her voice a teasing sing-song. “Folks out there getting revenge for what you’ve done to their people.”

Keran’s face reddened with rage. “Brought some friends, did you? Thought you’d break out the filth we have chained in here, take down the Templars? Well, you should have known better. What do you think my brethren in arms are doing right now? Hauling the poor little things out of their cells and taking them someplace safe? Oh, no. We have our orders, you see, if the tower is attacked.”

“What orders?” Hawke asked, her voice sounding harsh and thick in her own ears.

“You slimy bastards,” Isabela breathed. She launched herself at Keran, whose arm tightened alarmingly around Fenris’s neck. Air forced from the elf’s throat erupted in a high-pitched squeal, the single most undignified sound Hawke had ever heard her husband make. He went limp in Keran’s arms, clearly having lost consciousness, if not, Hawke thought, her heart leaping to her throat, life.

“Isabela,” she said quickly, and the pirate stopped moving as abruptly as if she were in a child’s game of stalk and freeze.

The tower shuddered, the squeal of stone on stone setting the hairs on Hawke’s arms on end. She cringed at the high-pitched sound—and even more at Fenris’s lack of response to it. Such a shriek should have been extremely painful to his sensitive hearing, but he hadn’t so much as twitched. 

“Please let him go,” she whispered.

“My prize,” Keran said. He nuzzled the short crop of white hair. “Mmm, that is so pure, you can smell the power in it.”

“You sick bastard.” Varric’s fingers curled around a phantom Bianca.

At his gesture, Hawke could have sworn she heard a ratchet and click and the crossbow’s sharp, cold voice. A bolt flew past her and buried itself in Keran’s left eye. Hawke stared at Varric, and then followed the dwarf’s slow, startled look back at Orana. The little elf was trembling, the crossbow shaking in her hands, but she gave Varric a pleased smile. “I did it.”

“I never doubted it for a minute.” Dwarf and elf held each other’s gazes, and Hawke looked away, feeling that she was treading on an intimate moment between the two. She saw Fenris lying sprawled atop Keran’s fallen form, and she went to him, on her knees next to his motionless form, feeling for a pulse in his neck.

Isabela was suddenly next to her, her hand on Hawke’s shoulder. “Is he—“

“No. There’s a pulse, but it’s faint. We need help … but from where?” It was an agonized moan as she looked down into his still face.

“Stay here. I’ll go.”

“Go where?” Hawke called after the pirate, who was already sprinting down the hall.

Isabela’s voice floated back to her. “Who do you think has been tearing down the walls? Wait there—don’t you let that broody bastard go anywhere until I get back!”


	46. Aunts and Abominations

The walls of the Aeonar creaked and shook under the onslaught of Merrill’s roots. Mages emerged on giant sections of root and were carried, in various stages of fear- and incarceration-induced collapse, down to where the group of them waited. Bethany ran to each mage as he or she landed, assessing their condition and trying to explain the situation as succinctly as she could. A few were so overcome they became abominations either in flight or on landing, and Varania dispatched those neatly with a vicious little slicing bolt of lightning. Bianca was more than a little frightened of the cold efficiency of her aunt’s killing, and of the sense of pleased accomplishment she seemed to emanate. The most disturbing part was how much Varania reminded her of her father; Bianca had never seen that exact expression on his face, but there had been approximations. Was this what Tevinter did to people, or was it something in the blood? Did she carry within herself the possibility of such calculated deadliness?

There wasn’t time to consider such a question. Bianca could feel Merrill sagging, the effort of maintaining the spell sapping the mage’s energy dangerously. “Aunt Bethany, do you have any lyrium?” she called.

Bethany came forward, looking seriously into Merrill’s face. The elf didn’t seem to notice, lost in the focus of her magic. “I don’t think that would be wise,” Bethany said. She looked to Kethali. “How long?”

“Months before I left. It’s why she sent me, among other reasons. Somehow she knew help would be needed, and she knew she wouldn’t be strong enough. I think she’s been saving her strength for this.” He tightened his arm around his mother’s waist.

Merrill was breathing heavily, her head lolling to the side. “I … I can’t … can’t …” And then, with a whispered “sorry”, the tension left her body and she sagged between Bianca and Kethali.

“Mamae!” Kethali lowered her gently, holding her against his chest. At Bianca’s stricken look of fear, he shook his head. “She lives, for now. But her magic will not be useful for some time yet to come.”

At that moment a shrill whistle split the air, and they all looked up to see Isabela clinging to a vine in one of the openings in the tower wall. Bethany’s face lit up, and a tension eased in her body that Bianca hadn’t even noticed was there before. It always startled her that two such different women as wild, irreverent Isabela and gentle, deeply thoughtful Bethany could have sustained such devotion to each other over such a long time. Her parents’ marriage never surprised her—they seemed to go together, their enjoyment of and reliance on each other almost palpable, but this whole adventure had shown Bianca new ways of looking at the world, at people, at the relationships people had with one another, and she was struggling to figure out how a person could know when they’d met the right one for them.

Isabela was climbing down the building as easily as she climbed the rigging on her ship, and Bethany was running toward her. The two women embraced without embarrassment—without displaying any sign that they knew anyone else was watching—holding one another close. Then they broke apart and began talking animatedly as they hurried back to the others.

“I can’t leave these people,” Bethany was saying.

“You have to! He’ll die if you don’t.”

“One life versus all these mages’? And the end result of them becoming abominations? No,” Bethany said decisively.

“He’s your sister’s husband—your niece’s father!” Isabela cried.

“Don’t you think I know that? But I am needed here.” Bethany broke off when one of the mages behind her cried out, rushing to the woman’s side and kneeling there.

Bianca wanted to run to her aunt and scream and shake her and force her to go, but she forced herself to hold still and let Isabela handle the situation. The pirate glanced at Kethali, but his head was down and he was murmuring over his mother, oblivious to all else.

“You!” Isabela looked at Varania. “Come with me.”

“I? To what purpose?”

“You’re going to save your brother.”

Varania didn’t move, but a muscle twitched in her jaw. “I ask again, to what purpose?”

“What do you mean, to what purpose? So he doesn’t die!”

“My brother died a long time ago. Danarius killed him.”

“Oh, not this again! Lady, we’ve all heard more than enough of that refrain from your brother; I’ve got no time for it now.”

“Please, Aunt Varania! Please go to him,” Bianca begged, tears in her eyes and in her voice.

The elf looked at her, more discomfited than she had been by Isabela, but still did not move.

Without looking up from the mage she was assisting, Bethany remarked, “You came all this way to watch over your slave so he wouldn’t run away, but you’re willing to let him die by the hand of the White Chantry? Seems like a big waste of your time to me.”

Varania turned her head, frowning at Bethany. “You make a fine point. Very well,” she said to Isabela. “How do you intend to return to the inside of the tower? You may be able to nimbly scale a set of tree roots, but I am not.”

Isabela gave a great sigh, looking from Varania to Bethany to the building and back. “I guess we go in the front, then. How are you with combat magic?”

The elf looked at her hands speculatively. She yawned.

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?” Isabela asked, but there was no response from the elven mage, which Bianca took to mean Varania had no intention of fighting her way into the tower. Apparently Isabela took it that way, as well—Bianca wished she spoke Rivaini so she could decipher the pirate’s string of curses.

“You. Little Hawke. With me,” Isabela barked.

“But—“ Bianca looked down at Merrill. She wanted desperately to go to her parents, but she hated to abandon Kethali and his mother here, with Bethany so overwhelmed by all the freed mages.

Without looking up, Kethali said, “Go. They need you.”

She wanted to see his eyes, to be sure this was what he wanted, but as she hesitated, Isabela barked at her and grabbed her arm, hauling her along. “I love that sweet little kitten, too, but right now we need to get back inside. They’re alone in there and injured with only Bianca—the other Bianca—to look after them.”

“Right. I’m sorry,” Bianca said breathlessly, hurrying along at Isabela’s pace. Varania was keeping up more easily than she would have imagined.

The door of the tower was in front of them now, and two Templars burst out of it, their helmets askew, running as fast as their heavy armor would allow them to. “Abominations!” they screamed, not even pausing to wonder what the three women were doing there. “Behind us!”

“Grr! Argh!” A huge hulking creature with flesh that appeared to be melting right off it was lumbering behind them. It didn’t look that frightening to Bianca—it seemed rather mindless, and didn’t even appear to know how to do magic.

Isabela dispatched it with a well-placed dagger. She looked down at it, shaking her head in amusement at a distant memory. “I always told you they said that,” she whispered to no one in particular.

“What do we do about them?” Bianca asked, gesturing at the fleeing Templars.

“Let ‘em go. They aren’t enough reinforcements in town to be worried about them coming back,” Isabela said. “Come on.”

Varania paused, looking backward. She shook her head. “Most untidy.” With a flick of her wrist, she sent two jagged spikes of ice hurtling through the air. They embedded themselves neatly through the spines of the Templars. Once she was sure they were down, she turned to follow the other two women inside the tower toward her brother.


	47. Such a Devoted Sister

Varania was content to remain in the rear, watching as the pirate and her niece wasted their energies in haste and emotion. If Leto had died inside the tower, it would be vexing, she acknowledged, and would spoil many of her plans. On the other hand, it would certainly be a fitting way for him to end, at the hand of those who held mages captive, those he agreed with philosophically, if not morally. She couldn’t help a small, bitter smile. After all his high-minded words and attitude, he had been caged just as if he were one of those mages he so despised.

Of course, he hadn’t always despised them. When they were children, they had played together, pretending to be powerful magisters. And when he had become certain the gift would never manifest itself in him, he had sulked for days before Mother had found a way to get him a training sword and suggested he channel his black anger into learning that craft. It had already been clear that he would never have proven a satisfactory servant. The subsequent years and experiences had merely added to his natural insubordination. Danarius had appreciated that—he enjoyed keeping a powerful, rebellious slave on a leash. Most magisters would not have done so; Leto would have been killed the first time he glared at a typical master. Varania had never been quite certain whether she wished her brother had found a less perverse master or not. Alive but with no memory she could take satisfaction in his torment and his subjugation … dead she might have been able to forgive him. As it was, she had watched their mother die, broken-hearted and sick, while Leto was hand-fed like an exotic housecat. And it was their mother’s face, framed by those same arching black brows, that she saw every time she looked into his face. She wanted him dead, to pay for what he had caused, but she couldn’t bear to separate herself from that last reminder of who she once had been.

This entire journey had been an exercise in that type of indecision. Watching him scourged by those whom he thought of as friends and family had been sweet revenge, but, unlike Leto himself, she remembered the days when that look of bewildered hurt in those green eyes brought him to her side looking for comfort. Some vestige of that affection must still survive deep within her, because there had been moments when she wanted to put her arms around him as she had when they were children and offer what comfort was hers to give. Of course, given that she had been the root cause of his troubles, she had little comfort to offer in this circumstance.

Nor could Varania deny that seeing his daughter—and the way the child clearly idolized him, despite her anger with him—fomented in her a bitter jealousy. Varania had never felt safe in conducting affairs of the heart, as one never knew when the person was spying for a fellow magister. She would never have put herself in such a position of vulnerability as to become pregnant. Magistership was a carefully balanced game, and the winner was the one who did not fall prey to the plots and schemes of the others. That meant resisting ties of blood and, worse, love, avoiding the traps such emotion presented.

Varania had done her job admirably. For an elf, she was remarkably highly placed in the ranks of magisters, and she intended to stay there. Which meant, yes, rescuing her brother and reminding him of his obligations. His powers would cement her place in the hierarchy … especially if somehow she could use his markings to determine how Danarius had worked the ritual in the first place. Being no fool, Danarius had killed all those involved in creating Leto’s lyrium tattoos, retaining the knowledge of how it had been done only within himself. Other magisters had attempted such things, but had achieved nothing but dead slaves and wasted lyrium. Varania had expended her resources instead in chasing her brother, waiting patiently like a spider in the center of a web for him to weary of fleeing and attempt a more direct approach.

While having him in her retinue had been most gratifying, she had yet to come to a fuller understanding of how his powers worked, or the details of how the lyrium had been shieled and inlaid into his body, and this detour on behalf of his wife and child had been incredibly frustrating. Entering this building where he lay injured she felt as much tempted to shake him and curse him for wasting her time and resources as to heal his wounds. She hoped by the time she saw him she would have herself under better control. A magister who gave way to frustration and anger in front of others did not remain a magister for long.

As she followed the others, she looked around her with undeniable interest. Accustomed as she and her fellow magisters were to sneer at the White Chantry and its futile attempts to control and subjugate mages, she had never expected to see the inner workings of their prison … Looking around her at the bare stone walls, she concluded that mages of the southern lands must be fools. Allowing themselves to be captured and brought to such a place? Remaining immured here instead of escaping? What types of weak creatures could these be? No mage of Tevinter would stand for such treatment—and there was no denying that mages held the upper hand. To have magic at your fingertips was to rule the world. Any mage who could not see that, in Varania’s view, did not deserve their power.

A Templar in a heavy, scratched helmet ducked out of a doorway as they moved through. Bianca and the pirate both readied their daggers. Hastily the Templar snatched the helmet off his head, revealing the besotted young redheaded boy who had accompanied them on the journey. “Don’t shoot!” He grinned at them.

“Freddy!” Bianca’s face lit up at the sight of him. Varania rolled her eyes. The girl had spent the entire voyage mooning over the two boys, often when she was supposed to be training. Such a lack of discipline—she would have expected Leto to raise his daughter with more firmness than that.

“The tower’s a mess. I assume the breaches in the wall are your people?” Freddy asked in a whisper. At Isabela’s nod, he grinned. “All the Templars are in an uproar. Some of them are attacking the mages, some of them ran off. No one seems at all interested in going to take on the people responsible for the broken walls.”

Bianca seemed uninterested in the boy’s litany. “Where are my parents?”

“This way.” The pirate brushed past the young man, hurrying down the hall. She did not glance back, apparently assuming they would all follow.

Freddy took Bianca’s hand. Neither of them spared a glance for Varania, but that didn’t bother her. She was content to follow. The pirate seemed to feel great urgency over Leto’s fate, but Varania could not imagine her brother to be in such dire straits as that. No doubt once they reached him, he would be standing on his own two feet with that superior look he wore, being doted on by that simpering human fool he had married. Not that it concerned Varania that he had married outside the elven race, but given the way humans treated elves, there seemed something wrong with one who would willingly marry a member of a race perceived to be inferior, much less give birth to his half-caste child. Varania could not understand what had led this Hawke to throw her life away on Leto, and she could not respect what she did not understand.

She followed the others up a flight of stairs, and then another, firmly refusing to admit the pain in her knees from climbing the stone steps. Perhaps her body had no choice but to age, but her mind was under no obligation to recognize such frailty.

There was a sharp, enticing smell of blood in the hallway they entered. Despite the White Chantry’s fears, blood was power, and a mage lived, thrived, on power. Varania felt her fingers twitching, felt the demon tickle the edges of her mind. Certainly there was a danger in the use of blood, insofar as it inclined demons to think you might be turned in their direction, but to Varania’s way of thinking, anyone who fell for a demon’s whispers was a fool who hadn’t deserved the benefits of magic in the first place.

She put the thoughts away from her as she spied the group crouched on the floor. Amidst the dead bodies of several Templars—one of whom had had his throat torn out, certainly a victim of Leto’s savagery—a dwarf, an elf, and a human woman she recognized as Leto’s wife clustered around a fallen form. Leto.

Varania was startled by the chill that clutched her heart. She had assumed the pirate’s urgency was typical Southern histrionics, and even now she imagined that those people grouped around her brother were being melodramatic … but what if she was wrong? What if he had been killed in this mad attempt to save his woman and escaped all her plans in this manner? She noticed that her pace had increased. The child Bianca was practically running, dragging young Freddy along with her, while the pirate moved along a bit more slowly, as if to let the child reach her parents first.

The outcry Bianca was making could not be helpful to Leto’s recovery, she thought with a sniff. Apparently the other adults thought the same, because the blonde elf woman was tugging the girl away from her father, wrapping her arms around Bianca and holding her firmly. The dwarf put himself between them. The chill in Varania’s heart was working through her body now. Was it she who found herself running at a pace she hadn’t attempted in years? Was it she who pushed aside the human wife and knelt next to her brother’s body, her hands trembling as she laid them on the sticky red wound at his side?

It must have been, because there was no doubt that it was her tears that dripped onto the back of her hands as her magic gripped the shaky threads of his lifeforce and slowly, firmly drew them back into his body.


	48. Shadows of the Past

Hawke sprawled on the cold stone of the floor where Varania had pushed her, staring in confusion at the thin elf bending over Fenris’s motionless form. Was she … saving him? Varania hated Fenris; how was it that she was here healing him? She shifted abruptly when she realized she was lying in the pool of Cullen’s rapidly congealing blood, trying not to gag at the feel and the smell.

She crouched there as close to Fenris as she could without getting in Varania’s way, ready to—what? What could she do against a powerful magister, even if Varania had something in mind other than healing him? The elf was completely focused on what she was doing, an expression of serious concentration on her face that was eerily like those Fenris and Bianca often wore. Of course, it would be—this woman was their blood. So used to seeing the three of them, herself and Bianca and Fenris, as a single unit, Hawke often forgot that they shared ties of blood with others. Like Bethany. She looked around suddenly. Where was Bethany? Why was Varania here, and not her own sister? Hawke tried to meet Isabela’s eyes, but the pirate wouldn’t look at her.

Closing her eyes, Hawke felt a sickening sense of disappointment. After all these years, Bethany still couldn’t forgive Fenris for his hatred. Granted, Fenris hadn’t been able to forgive her for being a mage … but if she had been lying dying at his feet, he would have done his best to save her, for the sake of her relationship with Evelyn. That Bethany couldn’t set aside her enmity for the same reason saddened Evelyn.

Varania’s face was serious as she studied Fenris, her hands moving over his breastplate. He would live, Evelyn was sure of that. If he was truly in danger of dying, she would feel it in her heart. But telling herself that didn’t make the minutes go by any faster.

Varric was silent behind her, as were Isabela and Freddy. Bianca’s tears were muffled against Orana’s shoulder. Evelyn blessed the day they had met Orana—she had been a gift in Evelyn’s mother’s life, she had been faithful to them all these years, she had willingly put herself in danger on Evelyn’s behalf. When they returned to Kirkwall, Evelyn would have to see that Orana was rewarded for everything she had done. She gave a swift, speculating sidelong glance at Varric. Perhaps there was a way to nudge Varric out of his comfort zone. He had let Merrill go all those years ago, without ever telling her how he felt about her. Maybe he had learned something since then. Maybe Evelyn could teach him something about not letting love slip through your fingers.

She returned her attention to Fenris, and Varania as she knelt over him, her focus absolute. At last the elf sank back on her heels, closing her eyes. “He will survive.”

“Thank the Maker.”

At that, Varania did open her eyes, turning her green gaze, so like Fenris’s, on Hawke. “The Maker had nothing to do with it. He turned his back on the world long ago—he has no further impact on our lives or our decisions.”

“Fine, then,” Evelyn snapped. “Thank you.”

Varania’s lips tightened. “Do not be so sure; I did not save him for you.”

“For who, then?”

“Perhaps for myself. Perhaps for our moth—“ Varania stopped herself, her lips thinning as she suppressed the rest of the word.

Hawke wished that somehow she could have met their mother. Varania and Fenris were so similar in looks and demeanor and mindset, apart from the question of magic, that she had to imagine their mother had been that way, as well. “Who was your father?” The question was out before she had given it any conscious thought.

Varania raised her eyebrows. “Another slave. Our master purchased his time from his master to stud our mother. He was chosen for his looks, his strength, and the lack of magic in his line.” A bitter smile quirked the corner of her mouth. “A bit of a failure in genealogical accuracy, it appears. What happened to him is unknowable. Just another enslaved elf in Tevinter.” She shrugged. “Perhaps we have brothers and sisters throughout the Imperium.”

“You—You’re a magister, though.” Bianca had edged toward them at her mother’s question. Her voice was cracked from the crying, and she swiped her hand across her face to wipe away the remnants of her tears. “Can’t you look up the records and find out?”

“I am a magister.” Varania drew herself up with pride. “But I am still an elf. No amount of money or power reduces the length of my ears. And there are certain resources that are not available to me.”

Bianca nodded. “I see.”

To Hawke’s surprise, her daughter let the conversation go, wrapping her arms around herself as she knelt next to her father. “Papa?”

Fenris groaned, a spasm of pain crossing his face as he shifted in response to Bianca’s voice.

Hawke knelt next to her daughter. “Fenris. Fenris! Fenris?”

“Yes?” The familiar response seemed to come automatically to his lips. His voice was rusty and weak, but it was wonderfully his.

“Will you please stop doing that to me?” she asked, to cover the weakness of relief that filled her at the sound, and to combat the urge to cry.

Bianca reached for his hand, holding it tightly, and Hawke was reassured to see Fenris’s answering grip was firm. His strength was returning. Maybe in a few more minutes they could get out of here. She laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, and got to her feet, feeling more herself now that he was more himself.

“What’s it like out there?” she asked, looking at Isabela and then at Freddy.

“Templars are scared and confused. Not a lot of them left, although there may be some more in the village,” Freddy said.

“Cupcake’s got the mages well in hand out there, too.”

“Out there?” Hawke frowned in confusion. “How did the mages get out?”

Bianca stared at her mother. “Merrill broke the walls down. Couldn’t you tell?”

“Merrill’s out there?” Hawke asked, at the same time as Varric exclaimed, “Daisy saves the day! I always knew she could do it.”

Orana, unnoticed by anyone but Hawke, bit her lip and looked down at her shoes.

“Hear that?” Isabela said to Fenris, who was now sitting up, leaning against Bianca’s shoulder. “You owe your life to that sweet little kitten. I’ll expect you to say thank you.” She winked at him.

“I will do my best.”

“The elven mage?” Varania asked. “She appeared very weak; perhaps she will not survive to be fawned upon.”

“What?” Hawke turned to Isabela. “Merrill’s hurt?”

The pirate gave Varania a venomous look. “No, not hurt exactly. Just … tired.”

“Kethali’s with her,” Bianca said earnestly. “He wouldn’t have sent us on if he thought— If he was afraid— Anyway, Aunt Bethany’s out there, too.”

The reminder that her sister was outside the tower rather than inside where her help had been needed didn’t improve Hawke’s temper. “How nice for her,” she snapped. “Why don’t we join her?” She looked around at Fenris, who was being helped to his feet by Bianca. Seeing him recovering increased the tension she felt—with him on his feet, Hawke remembered not the injury, but the reasons for it, and the ultimate cause of those reasons, and all the anger and betrayal and devastation she had felt when he first left rushed back over her. “Can you walk?” 

He nodded, not appearing to notice the curtness in her voice. Bianca did, and she frowned at her mother. Hawke ignored the look, turning crisply around. The only way to get through what was ahead of her was to somehow find the person she had left behind, the Hawke who had brought all these people together. She reached deep inside herself for her old sense of command. “Let’s go.”

As she led the way, she felt a familiar presence at her side, and she smiled at Varric.

“Hawke in the lead again. Feels right,” he said. “It’s been too long.”


	49. Wounded Bird

A few Templars tried to challenge them as they made their way out of the tower, but none could stand against the combined prowess of Hawke’s team for long.

“I wonder what the townspeople are going to do,” Orana said nervously as they neared the front doors.

“Stay safe in their houses until it’s over, if they’re smart,” Isabela said, but she held up a hand to make the rest of them stop and insisted on going first through the doors, just in case. The coast was clear, at least for now, and in a moment they were hurrying around the tower to where Merrill still lay in her son’s arms. She tried feebly to rise as Hawke and Varric approached, her eyes lighting up.

They knelt next to her; everyone else stayed back for the moment, sensing that Merrill didn’t have the strength to be descended on en masse.

“I should have known you would come,” Hawke said gently.

“Miss the great adventure? How could I?”

Kethali’s arms tightened around his mother. “I sent for her; I’m sorry, Mother. I shouldn’t have let you use all of your strength. I could have—“

Merrill giggled, sounding so like the old days that it brought an answering smile to Hawke’s face. “Don’t be silly,” she said, looking affectionately at her son. “Your powers are growing, but they aren’t there yet. You’ve done very well, my son, and I am proud of you.” Her green eyes shone up at him, and Kethali’s dimmed with tears.

“Mother …”

“This has been coming for some time. My strength hasn’t been what it once was since that illness in the alienage several years ago, and I can feel …” She glanced away, her face troubled. “I can’t hold out much longer.”

Hawke felt a chill deep within her at Merrill’s words. She knew what the mage meant—the demons that had been coming after her for years, since she first dabbled in blood magic. “What can we do?” she asked gently.

A brilliant smile lit Merrill’s face. “You understand. You’ve always understood.”

“Oh, Daisy,” Varric said, his voice even rougher than usual. “After all this time, we’ve come back to this again? I was hoping for a new song.”

“Perhaps it is, just written to the same tune.” Merrill moved her hand, so thin the skin was like paper, over Varric’s. “Going home to Ferelden was the right choice, the right path, for me. I’ve done good work in the alienage—it hardly even deserves the word anymore. And I’ve brought fine children into the world.” She smiled at Kethali, who tried to smile back even though his face was wet with tears. “If I had stayed in Kirkwall …”

“I know, Daisy. I know.” Varric turned his head aside to clear his throat.

“Merrill, are you sure?” Hawke asked.

“There isn’t much time. I hear … them, and they promise—“ For a moment Merrill’s eyes were far away from them all. 

“Mother!” Kethali cried sharply.

Merrill blinked, and then her eyes were clear and back with them. “Thank you. Hawke, don’t let me give up. I’ve fought … so hard … all this time …”

Fenris’s deep voice came from over Hawke’s shoulder. “You have survived much longer than I ever would have imagined you could. While I cannot condone the path you took, you have trod its stones with strength and honor. Hawke, give her what she asks for.”

“You’ve wanted her dead for years, you broody bastard,” Varric muttered, his voice cracking.

“Varric. Let her go. We love you, kitten.” Isabela knelt next to the dwarf, laying the back of her fingers against Merrill’s cheek. “You’ve been stronger than any of us, for longer than we could have been. You deserve to rest.”

Merrill’s hand closed around Varric’s, and she smiled up at her son. “I spoke to your father before I left; he will not be surprised. You should go home when you can, to help him. The alienage can use your skills.”

“I thought I was supposed to be making my way in the world, and helping Hawke.”

“You have done that, as I knew you would.”

“He’s been a big help,” Evelyn said.

“Dear Hawke.” Merrill gasped, her face pinching as with pain. “Not … not much time left.”

“I’ll do it,” Varric said hoarsely.

“No!” Merrill gripped his hand tighter. “No, Varric. Let Hawke do it. I won’t—I won’t have you carry that with you.”

Hawke glimpsed Orana’s face, tight and drawn, watching as the little elf turned away from the scene. Once this was all over, when they were home, when Varric had had time to recover, she would do something about that situation, she vowed. Until then … “Isabela,” she said softly. The pirate understood, and detached a small knife from the top of her boot, handing it to Hawke, hilt first.

“It’s my favorite, kitten,” she said to Merrill. “Only the best for you.”

Merrill smiled gratefully at her. “Isabela. Take care of yourself.”

“Always do.” Isabela was trying for her usual breeziness, but her wet cheeks and husky voice betrayed her.

Fenris’s benediction had already been spoken, and Hawke felt him move away from the little knot of people clustered around the fallen elf, giving Merrill privacy. Bianca was somewhere behind her with Freddy; Bethany was still dealing with the mages. Orana was folded up, sitting with her back against a fallen chunk of wall with her head buried in her upturned knees. Best to do this quickly, Hawke thought, and end the pain for everyone concerned.

“Are you ready, Merrill?”

“Yes, Hawke. Thank you.”

“No. Thank you. You’ve done your people very proud, whether they wanted to acknowledge that or not. I’m glad to have known you, my friend.” At the last word, she slid the dagger in between two of Merrill’s ribs and into her heart. The elf sighed, blinking once, then her eyes glazed over and she sank back into Kethali’s embrace.

Evelyn leaned forward and kissed the still face, then stood up. Everything in her wanted to turn to Fenris, to feel his strong arms around her and to rest her head against the shoulder that had been her comfort for so many years, but she lacked the assurance she had always had that that shoulder would be there for her. He had left her with no warning, and there was nothing stopping him from doing it again, nothing but his word, and he had given that many times before. Instead she looked to their daughter, opening her arms. Bianca came into them, and she held her daughter close. She wanted to weep for Merrill, that her friend would never know what it was like to hold her child again, but this had been Merrill’s choice. She had gone on her own terms, in her own time, in the place of her choosing, and in Hawke’s belief, was more to be envied than sorrowed for.

Varric remained crouched there, holding Merrill’s hand, staring into her face as if searching for some remaining sign of life. Isabela got down on her knees next to him, gently taking Varric’s hand and disentangling it from Merrill’s. “So what do we do?” she asked Kethali. “Her people bury their dead, don’t they?”

Kethali swallowed hard, clearly not comfortable with being the person who had to make the decision. “The Dalish do, yes. But … the Dalish haven’t been Mamae’s people for a long time. Not since before she went to Kirkwall, to hear her tell it … and I don’t think she would want to be buried anywhere near this place, anyway.” He looked up at the ruined tower with disgust. “I—I think she would want to be sent to the Maker. It’s where Papae will go, and … the rest of you, I imagine.” He looked doubtfully at Varric, who gave a watery attempt at his usual grin.

“The Stone certainly doesn’t want me. At least with the Maker I won’t have to deal with all those stuffy dwarves from the Merchant’s Guild.”

“Well, then.” Kethali gave an uncertain smile in return. “Do—any of you know how?”

Hawke closed her eyes, a chill passing through her. She had a dim recollection of her mother’s pyre, but she couldn’t bear to think of that, much less to use the memory for help with Merrill’s. This was an entirely different circumstance. Her mother had had her life ripped from her, her body defiled. Merrill had given herself willingly, freely, for those she loved, and to prevent herself from being taken by a demon. Seeing Merrill to the Maker would be a true celebration of a sweet, loving spirit.

“I can assist,” she heard a familiar, if surprising, voice say. Fenris was striding forward toward Kethali. “It has been some time, but I believe I recall the appropriate words of the Chant.”

Hawke found the offer startling, though not the claim of familiarity with the Chant. She remembered standing in the doorway of Bianca’s nursery, listening to that deep voice rumbling the rhythmic rise and fall as he sang the Chant to the baby, and laying her head on his chest and letting the sound surround her. She shivered, longing to be that way again, the comfort and familiarity and excitement of being his wife. If only she could trust him.

She turned away suddenly, letting go of Bianca, who joined her father and Kethali in beginning their preparation for the pyre. Hawke sought out Orana, still sitting apart from the rest of them, and sank down onto the grass next to her. “There will be time,” she said quietly. “Once we’re away from here, when we go back to Kirkwall. I think … I think maybe he’s ready now.”

Orana’s face was pinched with pain. “I don’t think he’ll ever be ready. He likes his life the way it is. Maybe he’ll acquire a dagger and name it Merrill.” She made a watery sound halfway between a bitter laugh and sorrowful sniff.

“That’s not like you.”

“How do you know?” The question was spoken so softly the anger in it didn’t register with Hawke at first. “You left Kirkwall; you abandoned him, you abandoned me. We both waited for you. So did the Viscountess and Ser Donnic. And when you came back, we dropped everything because you needed us. But you don’t know us anymore; you haven’t for years. You expect to come back and find us all the people we were when you left, forgetting that there’s been twenty years of our lives since you went away. I’m sorry, Hawke, but it doesn’t work that way.” She got up and stalked away, leaving Hawke staring after her.

There was no time to consider Orana’s words further, because the pyre was ready. Hawke got up to join the others around Merrill’s still form. She looked at peace, and despite the white hair, as youthful as when Hawke had first seen her on Sundermount, all those years ago.

Varric stood next to her; Isabela and Bethany hand in hand; Bianca next to Kethali, holding his arm. Freddy stood a bit apart, head bowed. Orana was nowhere to be seen. The rescued mages milled around, but none of them approached Hawke and her crew. Fenris took his place near Merrill’s head, looking down at her.

“We never agreed, Merrill and I. She was ever an optimist, I a pessimist.”

It was a tribute to how upset Varric was that he didn’t make a comment. Hawke considered making one in his place but decided against it.

Fenris kept going. “In the end, however, I am forced to concede that she was right. She was much, much stronger than I ever gave her credit for being, and I …” He turned to the body on the pyre. “I am sorry for doubting you.”

Isabela burst into tears, burying her face in Bethany’s shoulder.

Fenris looked at her with a small, affectionate smile on his face. His eyes were suspiciously wet, and Hawke wanted to go to him, but something kept her feet from moving. As she hesitated, Fenris broke into the Canticle of Benedictions. It was the right choice, Hawke thought. Merrill had stood before the corrupting influences in her own life and she had never faltered; she had been the champion of the just, far more than Anders or Justice had ever been. A wave of love for her old friend washed over Hawke, and she wept freely, reaching down to put a hand on Varric’s shoulder. He covered it with his own as he stood, dry-eyed, watching as Merrill flew away into the sky.


	50. Troubled

After they had seen Merrill to the Maker’s side, or wherever she was bound, they turned their attention to the rescued mages. There were about a dozen of them remaining, the rest having succumbed to the whispers of demons or died from the extent of their injuries and maltreatment. Hawke looked at the bodies with compassion; she could see how easily it could have been her there. If it hadn’t been for the devotion of her friends, and of Fenris … But she still wasn’t sure how she felt about Fenris and his choices recently. In the cell it had been easy to forgive him—he had been her lifeline, and all she could see was the love that was so undeniable between them. Out here it was different; she had Varania’s constant smirking and Bethany’s glares and Bianca’s distress beating down on her like unrelenting suns, and it was impossible to escape the reminders. He had left her, abandoned her in Kirkwall without even considering talking to her about it first. At some point, she was going to have to decide how she felt about that, and what she was going to do.

In the meantime, she threw herself into helping the bewildered mages, most of them suffering from the effects of their long imprisonment. The inhabitants of the village appeared once or twice; the Templars who lived there had fled, and the innkeeper’s wife, who seemed to be the most decisive personality in the village, made an agreement with Hawke that they would all live and let live—Hawke would keep the freed mages out of the village, and the villagers would let them all alone. This left them without a lot of food, until Isabela and Bianca made a raid on the wreckage of the tower and found the storeroom.

After a couple of days, the first of the Highever troops began arriving. They clearly had not expected what they saw—the great tower disassembled, wide-eyed and nervous mages wandering the countryside more or less freely, and a band of aging adventurers and teenagers camping out amidst the chaos.

There were some healers with the troops, who immediately took charge of the mages, and the rest of the men went into the village hunting for the remnants of the Templars. Hawke’s people were left with their work finished, and it was clear that everyone was ready to leave the rubble of the Aeonar far behind them. One of Fergus’s men offered an escort back to Highever, complete with a cart for those who didn’t wish to walk or ride, and it was accepted with alacrity.

Once they were back in Highever, Isabela immediately began going over the refit of her ship with a fine-tooth comb, finding fault in whatever miniscule details she could. Bethany watched her with a fond smile. “She never trusts anyone’s work but her own. That’s why the Temptress is still in such good condition, and one of the fastest ships on the high seas.”

“You seem happy, sister,” Evelyn remarked, leaning her forearms on the rail next to Bethany. The harbor smelled of fish and tar and salt, odors Hawke had never learned to appreciate. She could see that Bethany, much like Isabela, came alive in this environment.

“We are. Never better.”

“I’d never have imagined Isabela settling down all these years.”

Bethany glanced at her sideways, nodding. “We’ve had our ups and downs, for sure. It hasn’t always been easy.”

“What relationship is?”

Evelyn had meant it lightly, but Bethany’s face darkened. “Your … husband seems to think yours is—he comes and goes as he pleases, and swoops in to save the day when the rest of us have done all the work.”

“That’s not fair!”

“I think it is.”

“How can you still, after all these years, be holding a grudge against him?”

“Because he’s earned it at every turn,” Bethany said. “You’ve been on the run because of him; he put you through years of torment back in Kirkwall with his selfishness; he ran away and left you and Bianca alone.”

Evelyn looked away, toward the open ocean and across the sea in the direction of Kirkwall. “I don’t know what ‘home’ means,” she said. “You know, people talk about ‘home’ and they mean the place where they grew up, or the place where they lived the longest, or the place where they currently live. But Lothering was destroyed—whatever it is now, I don’t think I’d recognize it, and I’ve been away from Ferelden for longer than I lived here. Kirkwall … isn’t the place I knew. The people have changed, and the buildings, and the whole flavor of the town. And I have nowhere else to go. Through it all, there’s been one thing that never changed, and that was him. Whatever foolish decisions he’s made, he is my home, just like this ship and Isabela are yours. And whatever I’ve gone through because of him, I’ve chosen to because it was, all of it, better than being without him.” She paused, wondering if there was more to say, but she could think of nothing.

“I can’t forget, Evelyn. Not while he still looks at me as though I’m one false move away from being an abomination. That may be true of some mages, but I’ve never been one of them.” Bethany shrugged. “Maybe that means I’m not a very powerful mage, maybe it means Father trained me well, maybe it’s because so many people have been looking out for me all my life. Whatever it is, I don’t deserve his black looks, and every time he turns one on me, I remember all the nasty things he’s said, starting with the night we met him.”

“I don’t know what that has to do with me.”

“You’re his wife! I’m your sister! How can you reconcile both of those?”

“Because I love him, and I love you. It bothers me that he doesn’t trust you—but he trusts you more than any mage he’s ever known, which is a high compliment. And it bothers me that you can’t try to understand him, but you’ve come a long way over the years. I’ve seen the growth in both of you and I keep hoping that eventually you’ll come to accept one another—for my sake, and Bianca’s, and for the Void’s sake, for Isabela’s, too. You’re both so caught up in nursing your resentment and fear of the other one’s failings that you can’t see who you’re hurting in the process.” Evelyn pushed herself off the rail. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Going to make up again?” Bethany said, nastily.

“No. I don’t know if we can.” Evelyn turned around. Without looking at her sister, she said, “I hope that makes you happy.” And she left her there, not bothering to wait for Bethany’s reaction.

High up in the rigging, Bianca looked down at her mother’s retreating back in anguish. She shouldn’t have eavesdropped; Isabela had told her countless times not to unless she was sure she could handle whatever she might hear. But she couldn’t help it—the chance to hear what her aunt and her mother were talking about had been one she didn’t want to pass up. Bianca had been hoping the Hawke sisters’ conversation would give her some hint as to what lay in her family’s future, but now it looked like all there was ahead of them was more arguing and more angriness and more unhappiness.

Her papa was down in the cabins, and her Aunt Varania was lurking about the ship somewhere, just waiting to cause more trouble, and Bianca didn’t see any way to get clear of it all and for the three of them to just be happy again.

“Bianca, may I have a word with you?” Kethali’s soft voice broke into her thoughts. She hadn’t even seen him climbing the ropes, which said a lot about how distracted she had been.

“Of course.”

He climbed onto the yardarm, carefully, as he did most things, and Bianca followed, swinging her legs as she sat next to him. “What’s on your mind?”

“I must leave you here.”

She hadn’t expected that, and she found herself staring at him in consternation.

“My father will need me,” he said gently.

“Oh. Of course. I’m so sorry,” she said, thinking of the gentle white-haired elf they had seen to the Maker, and all of her parents’ stories—well, her mother’s, really—about Merrill.

“Thank you.”

They looked at one another. Bianca had grown so used to him, grown to rely on his gentle support and calming presence; she hadn’t prepared herself for this moment.

“Bianca,” he said softly, reaching for her hand. His hand was cool, soothing, like fresh mint, Bianca thought, staring down at their intertwined hands. Kethali went on. “I’m sure you haven’t been unaware that my … feelings for you are—more than just those of a friend.”

She nodded, unable to speak. This moment she had known was coming, and she still didn’t know what her response would be, or how to sort through the tangled mess of her own feelings.

“This is clearly not the time to … to begin anything,” he said. “I must go, and there will be much for me to do—you must go a different way, and you have to heal the wounds in your family, and yourself, before you can begin to grow anew.”

There was truth in his words, but Bianca found herself unaccountably irritated. Who was he to tell her what she needed?

“Someday, maybe, there will be time again,” Kethali was saying. He lifted her hand to his mouth, kissing it. Bianca waited for that familiar flutter in her stomach, but mostly she felt annoyed. Did she not get a say in this decision? She had never been sure if she wanted a relationship with Kethali, but she would have been willing to think about it. Now he was saying that he had made the choice for both of them, just like Bianca’s parents had always made her choices for her, and she was getting very tired of it.

He was waiting for her to respond, and she tried to push her resentment aside and give him the kind of farewell his support during the trip deserved. “Thank you for … being here, Kethali. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“It was my pleasure.” He gave her hand a last squeeze, and then climbed down and left her sitting there in the rigging, feeling glum and powerless and very disgruntled.


	51. Love and Understanding

Fenris had to admit he had been pleased to see the young elf disembark from the ship prior to sailing. He appreciated what Kethali had done and how the younger man had stood by his family, but he was just as happy not to have such a temptation near his daughter. He needed no more obstacles in the path of his relationship with his daughter—Bianca was clearly trying to resume the closeness they had once had, but she was awkward about it, and that she had not managed to make her peace with his actions was clear to him, if not to her.

Hawke was suffering from similar feelings, it appeared; she had chosen to share a cabin with Bianca and Orana, putting Fenris in with Varric and young Freddy. She claimed this was merely good sense, but Fenris could feel the distance between them as if it was a tangible thing. The difference between mother and daughter was that Hawke was not even attempting to create the illusion of normalcy. She looked at him wearily when he approached her and said only, “Later. Please, Fenris, later.”

He could not deny her that—she had been through much, and she needed to recover physically before she could do so in spirit. But her distance, her obvious distress in his presence, chilled him to the bone. Never, in all their lives together, had she looked at him that way, as though she was afraid of him, afraid he would cause her further pain. Knowing that he deserved her trepidation was nauseating to him, and so he kept his distance. Bethany had cornered him about the way he was avoiding Evelyn, and he had allowed her to berate him, knowing full well that had he gone near Evelyn in her current state, Bethany would have lectured him about not crowding her sister. He had considered attempting to mend his relationship with Bethany, but the effort seemed fruitless. He was weary, tired of fighting. The easiest course seemed to be to endure the current state of affairs until docking at Kirkwall, and then to allow Varania to take him back to Tevinter.

Varric, who looked at him entirely too knowingly, was expecting him to do just that, and it disquieted Fenris to prove the dwarf right. He was not certain whose smirks were the most difficult to put up with, Varric’s or Varania’s. Both of them seemed to know precisely what he was thinking. Which was more than Fenris himself knew, he had to admit. He only knew that he wanted his life back the way it had been long ago, and that that was the one wish that could never come true.

“Contemplating jumping into the water? It would certainly make your life easier.” Bethany’s tone was waspish as always as she leaned against the rail next to him.

“Do you not believe I have suffered enough? This … situation has cost me my wife and child, it appears.” He could not keep the sorrow from his voice, and didn’t try particularly hard. “Now that I think of it, what would be enough for you?” He asked the question in all sincerity, finding himself interested in the answer.

Bethany raised her eyebrows. “That’s a good question. I suppose … if you went away and never hurt Evelyn again, but you tried that, didn’t you, and it only hurt her more. Or you could get down on your knees and beg her to forgive you, but I really wouldn’t want to see that.”

“Nor would I attempt such a thing where there would be anyone else observing.”

“Thank the Maker for that.” She smiled a little. “I’m angry with you.”

“You don’t say.”

“Right. But I suppose I’m really more angry at Evelyn, because she keeps lining up for more of this. And you’ll say that’s none of my business.”

“You are her sister. That gives you an interest in her well-being.”

“Like the interest your sister has in yours?”

Fenris smiled humorlessly. “An excellent point. Perhaps you have the right idea, being protective of your sister. She has certainly always been protective of you. She has long seen you as her responsibility—since your father’s death, I understand.”

“That wasn’t my idea. That was Father’s. And Mother’s, really. I would have been fine on my own.” She didn’t look at him, though, and after a moment said, “No, I wouldn’t. And I did lean pretty heavily on Evelyn until I went to the Circle. But after that … I was okay with being there, and she would never see that.” 

“It is not what people are taught about the Chantry’s Circles.”

“No, I suppose it’s not. But it was the right place to be for me, at that time. I learned so much—discipline and control that have served me well since I left. And that just because a person is a mage doesn’t make them right.” She glanced at him sideways. “But then, you already knew that one.”

Fenris acknowledged the truth of that statement with a nod. “Hawke blamed herself for your residence in the Circle. You had both grown up with a horror of that as the worst possible consequence for a mage, and she could never manage to think of you as being in a place that was not all bad while you resided there.” He cleared his throat. “I have said, many times, I believe, that you are one of the strongest mages I have ever met—not only because you have successfully avoided any appearance of temptation by demons, but because you have avoided the temptations inherent in your own power. I have never seen you use your abilities for gain, or for pleasure—“ Bethany’s mouth curved up at the corners, and he hurried past that one before she could bring any thoughts of her activities with Isabela any more clearly into his mind than they already were. “I … I trust you.”

Bethany’s eyes widened, her eyebrows rising. “You do?”

He nodded. It was not an easy admission to make, and he had never said it before aloud to any mage, but he found, thinking of it, that it was true.

“Thank you.”

“I do not blame you for your anger—I have richly deserved it—but for Hawke’s sake, could we put our differences aside?”

Bethany nodded. After a moment, she said, “You know, maybe I haven’t thought about this as thoroughly as I might have.”

“Pardon?”

“If Isabela were to run off on me, for my own good—which she is more than capable of doing—I wouldn’t rest until I’d dragged her back.” She looked down at her hands on the rail. “Early on, there were … conversations … about Isabela’s past and her … unworthiness to be with me. Which was totally ridiculous, and I told her so, but there were a couple of times when it was a near thing. I had not thought about that in some time, but—maybe I understand your decisions better than I thought I did.”

Fenris nodded. He had always felt that he and Isabela shared a kinship, shared the twin desires to run off and be free and to cling to the person who represented safety and home; it did not surprise him that she should have entertained thoughts of flight as she embarked upon a committed relationship.

“She’s different when she’s with you,” Bethany said. “Even now, when it’s clear there’s some tension between you, I can see it. She’s … softer, more relaxed, less quick to rush to a decision or to snap at people. It’s the way she was when we were growing up, before Father died. I think, when she lost him, she felt she had to be that much stronger to make up for him not being there.”

“She has said so. That there was no one for her to lean on. As much as I do not feel worthy of her, I have tried from the first to be what she needed of me, and often that meant simply being there. At her side, at every moment I could be.” He looked directly at Bethany. “When I left her, it was because I was trying to be strong for her. This was one decision I knew she would not make for herself, and I felt strongly that it was the correct one, for Hawke and for Bianca. That you believe I made it for my own convenience I know, and I do not say that you have missed the mark completely in your accusation, but at heart it was for Hawke’s safety. I would not knowingly be a danger to her life and limb.”

Bethany sighed. “I know you think that. I know she thinks that. I can even see how you came to that conclusion. Can we let that be enough, for now?”

“We can.”

They stood quietly at the railing together.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Bianca stole through the rigging high above their heads, a pleased smile on her face. At least someone on the ship had learned to stop being angry at Papa. Deep down inside her, something that had been unsettled was at peace after hearing his words, hearing from his own mouth the way he still felt about her mother.

“Got what you wanted this time, did you?”

She nearly fell off the rigging at the sound of her Aunt Isabela’s voice, catching herself just in time.

“Haven’t I told you never to get so caught up in observing one thing that you forget to watch for someone sneaking up behind you?” Isabela grinned, making a seat out of the ropes and swinging on them.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Next time, don’t get caught out by someone sneakier than you—and trust me, no matter how good you are, there will always be someone sneakier than you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That said … nice to hear those two finally learning how to get along, isn’t it?”

Bianca nodded. “Why did it take so long?”

“I don’t know, sugarplum. Sometimes people are stubborn. Like your father. And anyone named Hawke.”

“Hey!”

Isabela chuckled. “You may not think so now, but someday you’ll stubborn with the best of ‘em. Which is good sometimes … and sometimes leads to spending a lot of years shouting about things you can’t change.”

“Aren’t you ever stubborn?”

“I can be. When there’s something I really, really want.”

“Like you wanted Aunt Bethany. How long did it take you to convince her to run away with you?”

“Too long.” Isabela grinned. “Actually, if I’m being honest, she had to do some convincing of her own. I hadn’t intended to be stuck with one person for the rest of my life … but I couldn’t resist her.”

“What was it about her that made you know … you know, that she was it?”

Isabela’s amber eyes fixed on Bianca with a knowing look. “Couldn’t stay away. I left my ship in port, and climbed the miserable stones of that tower every night to be with her. I said it was just for a bit of fun, but … well, seems like it wasn’t.” She paused, but Bianca didn’t speak, so she went on. “I fought it, you know, pretended it was nothing but another lay—but I knew all along it wasn’t. The trick was convincing her.” She gave a lopsided smile. “I never have convinced Hawke, but then, that’s how big sisters are, I guess.”

Bianca waved away the last comment, intent on the original topic. “So … you felt all fluttery and funny when you were around her?”

“I guess you could say that.” Isabela’s eyes were sharp on Bianca’s troubled face. “But I’d felt fluttery and funny about quite a few people, men and women, before I met Bethany.”

“How many?”

Isabela laughed out loud, her head back. “Sweet thing, I can’t count that high.”

“You mean, it’s okay to feel that way about more than one person?”

“Okay? It’s normal, as far as I can tell. Most people get their flutter on with quite a few people before finding one who goes beyond that.”

Bianca frowned. “That’s not what my parents did.”

“You sure about that? I mean, your father, yeah—I’ve never seen him so much as glance at another woman—but your mother—“ Isabela caught herself. “Well, maybe that’s between you and her. Let’s just say she knew a few men before she met Fenris.”

Flashes of teasing conversation between her parents came back to Bianca. She’d ignored them at the time, but now she put a different spin on what she’d heard. “So …” She hesitated. “So just because you feel fluttery around someone, doesn’t mean you have to marry them?”

“Have to?” Isabela shifted so that she was sitting next to Bianca, putting her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “Kitten, you never have to get married if you don’t want to. Never,” she said with a ferocious intensity Bianca didn’t quite understand. “Who’s been telling you that?”

“No one!” Bianca assured her hastily. “It’s just that—I thought …”

“Those two boys, dancing attendance on you for months, yeah? You thought you had to pick one, and weren’t sure you wanted to?”

Bianca nodded. “I—I wasn’t sure I didn’t want to, either,” she admitted.

“Who would be? Two adorable puppies like that? I’d have had myself a fluttery good time.” Isabela squeezed Bianca’s shoulders. “But then, I’m not you, and you wouldn’t want to be me, no matter how glamorous and exciting I am. Trust me on that one.” She tipped up Bianca’s chin and looked her in the eye. “Kethali didn’t press you for any promises, did he?”

“No.”

“And Freddy won’t, either. They’re good boys. Just be nice about it—you’re young, and you don’t need to make up your mind forever just yet … or at all, if you don’t want to—but there’s no reason to hurt anyone.”

“No, I wouldn’t want anyone to be hurt. I … didn’t make any promises without knowing about it, did I?”

“Sugarplum, you think I would have let you do that? Not a chance.”

“But … you weren’t always there.”

“Nothing goes on on my ship that I don’t know about, I promise you that. You’ve been your sweet self, and that’s all. No promises made, spoken or unspoken.”

“Oh. Good,” Bianca said in relief.

“You all right now?”

“Yes. I—I have to talk to him, though.”

“’Course you do.”

Bianca got up, beginning to swing herself down the rigging, stopping when Isabela called her name. “Yes?”

“You need any help, you know where to come.”

“Yes, I do. Thank you, Aunt Isabela.”

“Anytime, sweet thing.”

Bianca made her way down, leaving Isabela sitting high in the rigging looking out over her beloved ocean.


	52. Where the Heart Lies

Varric watched as the Princess came down off the ropes—chip off the old blocks, that one. All the blocks, really. Rivaini’s agility, Broody’s stubbornness, Hawke’s certainty, Sunshine’s sweetness. He hoped to teach her a thing or two about storytelling before this voyage was over, just so she could go on her way carrying something of him, too. Wherever she was going, which wasn’t at all certain right now.

“No to whatever you’re thinking.”

He turned to look at Hawke, happy to see her old smile on her face. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

“I don’t have to. Whatever it is, I don’t think my daughter needs to know anything about it.”

“All joking aside, Hawke, that girl’s put in a grown-up’s work on this ship—and she’s lived through more adventures than most people ever do, grown-up or not.”

“All the more reason to give her back whatever of childhood she has left.”

“That’s not much. Especially with her parents acting more like children than she does.”

Hawke’s glare was a real one; no one else could have said that to her and gotten away with it. “You overstep your bounds, dwarf.”

“Every day. It’s what you love about me.” He grinned, waiting for the cold glare to warm, which it did.

“Why do I keep you around?”

“You haven’t, not in quite some time.”

She glanced at him in surprise. “You know why.”

“Yeah. I know what you said. You and Broody are more alike than most people realize—you fought longer than he did, but eventually you found it easier to run, too.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Oh?” Varric hadn’t been aware he felt quite this much vitriol, but apparently he did, and apparently it was planning to spill out of him all at once. There seemed to be not much he could do to stop it. “Which part? Where you got your happily ever after and disappeared out of the lives of everyone who wasn’t your hot elven lover, or the part where I spent twenty years writing to my best friend in secret instead of getting to share the details of my life with her?”

He had forgotten that Hawke fought back, and part of him was glad to see the spark in her blue eyes as she stared down at him. “I’m so sorry you were inconvenienced,” she said coldly. “Was there no point during that period when you considered getting your own life rather than waiting to chronicle mine, or was that too much reality for you to contemplate?”

They held one another’s gazes for a long moment, and then Hawke’s face relaxed into a smile that Varric couldn’t help returning. “I missed you, Hawke.”

“Me, too.”

“You going away again?” Varric held his breath, not wanting to let her see how much her answer meant to him.

Hawke sighed. “I don’t know. If Fenris goes back to Tevinter with Varania …” She must have seen Varric roll his eyes, because she looked down at him with a rueful smile. “I know. But without him … my life is empty. On the other hand, how can I do without my trusty dwarf ever again?”

“I’m glad I serve a purpose.”

“I mean it, though, Varric. I miss you, and I miss Kirkwall, and—and it’s been a long, long time since I felt like me. I want to go home. If at all possible, I want to go home with Fenris, and Bianca, but I know she’s been growing up without me, and if she wants to go out on her own, on board ship with Isabela and Bethany, maybe, I won’t stand in her way.”

“You sound like you do know what you want.”

“Yeah, I suppose I do. But can I have it? That’s the question.”

“If I can help—“

Her hand dropped to his shoulder in her old familiar gesture, and Varric grinned like any schoolboy. Much like Hawke, he hadn’t felt much like himself for a long time, either, but here at her side he thought he just might be coming back.

Later, after Hawke had gone off to practice her forms, trying to rebuild her strength, Varric sat on a bench on the deck, watching the water. It was pretty for a while, but he didn’t see what Isabela saw in it; he was plenty bored and ready to be back in the Hanged Man. He grinned to himself at the idea of a man who had barely moved from the same tavern in twenty years finding the ocean boring, but there you had it. What with Isabela busy running a ship and Broody all … broody, he hadn’t had a decent game of Wicked Grace in half an age.

A slender form settled down on the bench next to him. “Are you busy, Uncle Varric?”

“Never too busy for you, Princess.”

“That’s sweet. Is it true?”

He laughed. “More or less. I see you’re learning that what people say and what they mean aren’t always the same thing.”

She nodded, her face so serious. Just like her parents, he thought. A whole trio of people who needed to lighten up more often. He could only imagine what their last few hideaways had been like, everyone worried they were being pursued and blaming themselves. Poor kid, no wonder she had the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“What’s on your mind?”

“I’m not sure. It seems like this voyage is … is an open space. Is that what I mean? Like a—“

“An interlude? An intermission? A space between acts? Something like that.” Varric nodded.

“But—what happens next, when we land?” Her voice was thin, strained, as if she was near tears.

Varric wished he had an answer for her, but he didn’t know any better than she did. “The question is, what do you want to happen?”

“I want them back the way they were. You don’t know what they were like, when I was little, when we lived in Antiva.”

“Oh, trust me, Princess, I know.”

She looked at him sideways, not sure if she believed he meant what she meant, and maybe he didn’t. But he knew what Fenris and Hawke had been, and how far they had come away from that. Even when they weren’t together, there had always been a connection, and somehow that connection wasn’t there right now.

“I don’t know how to make them be like that again.”

“You can’t.” He caught her swift, unhappy look, and he shrugged. “Sorry, Princess, I’m not gonna lie to you. You can’t make them be anything they’re not ready for.”

“Then—how can I have what I want?”

“By deciding who you want to be, and being that, and letting your parents settle their own problems.”

“But what will they do?”

Varric grinned, patting her on the shoulder. “Maybe they’ll follow your example and grow up.” He got up off the bench, letting her sit there and think that one over.

At the other end of the ship, he saw two shadows very close to one another. Tension was clear in the lines of both thin elven forms, and Varric found a convenient coil of rope to conceal himself behind. Some people, he knew, frowned on eavesdropping, and he found it fairly amateur himself, but aboard ship his available means of collecting information were limited.

“You gave your word, Leto. You vowed to return to Tevinter. I own you!” There was triumph in Varania’s voice, and something else, too. If Varric had been the thoughtful, over-analyzing type, he might have thought it was longing. Or loneliness.

“I am aware of my responsibilities,” Broody said wearily. “And of what I agreed to. I have never said I would not go.”

“You’ve never said it, but I know how slippery you can be. You have no intention of coming back with me!”

“Varania.”

“Leto.”

“They are my family. How can you ask me to leave them behind again?”

“You did it already once. More than once, if your ‘friends’ can be believed. What’s the difference now? For that matter, you left your first family, too, and never looked back. Remember me, Leto? Remember Mother? Oh, wait, I forgot, your memories were conveniently erased.” Varania’s tone made her disgust with her brother very plain.

“Yes, they were. Do you not think I would give … everything to remember those days? I have … flashes, if I concentrate hard enough, things that come to mind briefly, at—at certain times, when I am at my most distracted.” There was a hesitancy and an embarrassment in the elf’s voice that made Varric raise an eyebrow. That would certainly be an awkward time to get your lost memories back, if he was following the elf’s train of thought correctly. He thought back, all those years, to the night Hawke had first brought Broody back to her house, and the three years of utter misery that had followed. He had always wondered what happened there. Had the elf gotten his memories back during the deed, and been unable to handle it? That would explain a lot.

His attention was drawn back to the elf and his sister, who were standing and staring at one another. The argument had stopped—apparently, they were at an impasse. Fenris wouldn’t break his word to Varania, but he didn’t want to leave Hawke, either, and in typical Broody fashion, seemed incapable of handling the situation in any productive way. Varric was on the verge of storming over and trying to solve the situation himself—uncharacteristically for him, but he was so tired of all this, and he wanted to see Hawke smile again. But before he could do so, a small, slender hand fastened on his arm, and he looked in surprise to see Orana frowning at him.

“I have heard you say before that you’re an observer, and you don’t get involved,” she whispered.

“Extenuating circumstances.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think you can fix this for them, Messere Varric.”

“Please stop with the ‘messere’,” he whispered fiercely. “You and I have known each other too long for that.”

Orana looked down, her lashes fluttering closed over her beautiful eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re right, too.” He drew her away from where Broody and the magister still argued, as much with their eyes as with their words. “I don’t like seeing a situation that seems so likely to put my life back where it’s been all this time.”

“Is Serah Hawke truly such an important piece of your life?” Orana asked.

“Of course!” he began, and then he saw the searching expression on Orana’s face, and realized that she was thinking of all the meals they had shared, the special treats she had baked for him, the times they had worked together on behalf of Hawke’s estate. And he felt like a heel. Squeezing Orana’s tiny hand in his, he said, “Not that there aren’t other people who have been special parts … I mean, um …” Varric Tethras was rarely at a loss for words, but this lady with her starry eyes fixed on his made him feel like everything he was saying was wrong. He hadn’t been this tongue-tied around anyone since … since Daisy left Kirkwall.

He thought of her, of the peace in her lined face as she’d closed her eyes, of her son and the way the two of them had looked at each other, and he wondered what things might have been like if he had taken a different path. With this thought in mind, he met Orana’s eyes. The depth of them frightened him, as if he was looking into a chasm and deciding whether or not to leap.

“It’s late,” he said at last, completely inadequately.

“It is.” Orana nodded. She let go of him, moving down the narrow stairs toward the cabins, and Varric watched her go, watching her as if with new eyes. Something was different about her—less hesitant, less … subservient than he was used to seeing in her. He didn’t know exactly when it had occurred, but he knew that surprisingly enough he liked it. And that disturbed him. It disturbed him very much.


	53. Mature Decisions

“Mother?” Bianca’s voice was very small in the darkness of the cabin. “Are you awake?”

She heard a rustle from the bunk as Hawke turned over. “Yes.”

“Can I talk to you?”

“Of course.”

“What are you going to do, when we get back to Kirkwall?”

There was a long silence in the cabin, followed by an equally long sigh. “I don’t know.”

“Will you take Papa back?”

“I don’t even know if he’s going to come back. He might go back to Tevinter with Varania.”

“Do you want him to do that?”

“No!” Hawke paused, trying to get hold of herself. “I didn’t want him to go in the first place, but I didn’t get to make that decision, or share in it, or even know about it until it was too late.”

“And you’re mad.”

“Aren’t you?”

Bianca frowned, thinking about it. “Yeah. I guess. A little.”

There was a fond amusement in Hawke’s voice. “You never could imagine your father doing anything wrong.” When Bianca, embarrassed, didn’t answer, her mother went on. “There’s nothing wrong with that. The two of you have always had a special bond. But it’s okay to be disappointed, too—and it’s okay not to. You don’t have to let the rest of us tell you how to feel.”

“It’s just—everyone’s so mad at him, but he was only doing what he thought was the best thing for all of us.”

“That’s what he did,” Hawke agreed. “But he didn’t think to stop and ask anyone else—that would be you, and me—whether they agreed with what he thought. He never has asked.” There was a rustle of bedclothes as she sat up, drawing her knees up to her chest. Thoughtfully, she added, “And while I can forgive him for that, because I know who he is, how can I trust that he won’t do it again? It’s not the first time he’s walked out on me without giving me a chance to help. It stands to reason it won’t be the last.”

There was raw pain in her mother’s voice, and Bianca thought back to the morning her father had first left. Hawke had been wrecked, nearly unable to function without him. Bianca tried to imagine loving someone so much that losing them would cost that much, but it was beyond her. “What if he doesn’t, though?”

“You have great faith in him.”

“He loves us,” Bianca said simply.

“But he doesn’t trust us. He followed me for ten years in Kirkwall, and then was my partner for another ten and more afterward … but it never occurred to him that I might have ideas and opinions about the situation that could be relevant, and he up and left before I could talk him out of it. That’s a lack of trust, and, Maker forgive me, I can’t trust where I am not trusted in return. Not any longer.” Hawke sighed deeply and lay back down. Bianca could hear her rolling over in the bunk, turning her face to the wall, and knew that the conversation was over.

She knew she should appreciate her mother talking to her like an adult, taking the time to explain how she really felt … but mostly it just made Bianca feel even more lost and desolate than she had already. She got up, unable to stand another moment in the small, stuffy cabin alone with her mother’s unhappiness.

On deck she felt better, lighter, more free. She watched the stars for a while, listening to the sounds of the ship moving through the water, feeling content just to sit still, not thinking.

Then she sensed someone in the darkness behind her. Just as she was about to turn to look, Freddy swung down out of the rigging, sitting down next to her. “You’re up late.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“I can’t blame you.”

They sat in silence for a bit. Bianca knew what she wanted to say to him, but she wasn’t sure how to start.

“What’s on your mind?” he said suddenly, as if he was reading her thoughts.

“I … Freddy?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Thank you. For coming along, and for all the times—we’ve done this, just sat here together.”

“’Course.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He laughed suddenly, startling in the quiet night. “My mother would kick my butt if she thought I hadn’t done everything I could to help.” Sobering, he looked at Bianca sideways. “Besides, I wanted to. You’re … special. You know that, right?”

She shook her head, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat. “I’m not that special.”

“Says you.”

“But … I know you think I am.” Bianca forced the words out.

“Yeah.” Freddy looked straight ahead, out over the ocean. “I do.”

“I’m sorry I can’t—feel that way, too. You know?”

“I know.”

“I never meant to—“

He shook his head. “You didn’t. And how could you, anyway, what with everything?” Freddy reached out an arm, putting it around her shoulders and pulling her against him.

Bianca relaxed against the warmth of his chest. “Y-you’re not mad?”

“No. Just … well …” He shrugged. Then he looked down at her, with her head resting against his shoulder. “What are you going to do now?”

“You mean about my parents? They’re—Well, they’re behaving like children,” Bianca said sharply. She was ashamed of feeling that way, but she couldn’t help it—they really were.

“Yeah. I’ve heard a lot of stories about them, you know. My mom … she’s got a sharp tongue, and she’s not afraid to use it, but my dad really likes Serah Fenris. They were good friends, back in the day. And I guess he and Serah Hawke were always stubborn and hard to deal with when it came to each other,” Freddy said. “I guess what I want you to know is that you don’t have to let your life be dictated by what they do. We’d be happy to take you in while they settle their differences, or I’m sure you could stay here on the ship, or …”

Bianca gasped, sitting up straight.

“You have a plan?” Freddy asked.

“I think I might.” Impulsively she kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Freddy!” She got up and hurried below to the cabins, leaving him sitting alone in the middle of the deck, his head buried in his updrawn knees.

Down below, heedless of the hour, Bianca found the cabin she was looking for and knocked lightly on the door. As she had expected, the cool, crisp voice responded almost immediately. “Who is it?”

“Bianca.”

“You may enter.”

Bianca went into the cabin and closed the door behind her.


	54. Determined

The next day, the _Temptress_ docked in Kirkwall harbor, and everyone dispersed. Varric went gratefully back to the Hanged Man; Freddy home to see his parents. Orana, Evelyn, and Bianca went back to the Hawke estate in Hightown; Varania took up residence in a hotel near the docks. And Fenris stayed aboard the ship with Bethany and Isabela, still uncertain what to do about the the decision he seemed incapable of making. It didn’t help that Hawke went down the gangplank without looking at him, or that Varania cast him an amused and triumphant glance that he did not understand and yet was deeply disturbed by before she disembarked.

Bianca seemed strangely at peace, giving him a parting kiss and hug and telling him not to worry. Which, naturally, only made him worry the more.

Isabela came up next to him as he watched them all head toward Lowtown. “Give them the night, then go see what’s what.”

“How can I see ‘what is what’, as you put it, if I do not know myself?”

“Well, that one you’re going to have to figure out yourself … but if you haven’t done it in all this time, I’m not sure what is going to make up your mind for you.”

“I could try a lightning bolt,” Bethany suggested.

“If I thought that would help, I might allow it.” He sighed, turning away from the rail. The night passed slowly; Fenris didn't even attempt to sleep. He knew it would be a futile effort.

In the morning, he gave plenty of time for Hawke to awaken and prepare for the day before he made the familiar journey to her home; he had never been able to feel that it was fully his, and particularly now questioned his right to it.

Orana opened the door to him, looking at him warily, but with a certain amount of sympathy. “They've been expecting you, Serah Fenris.” She looked as though she was going to let it go at that, but thought better of it. “Please, serah, don't hurt her again.”

He wanted to snap at her, but she only spoke out of her concern for Hawke, and given the events of recent months, it was no doubt a reasonable request.

Hawke and Bianca were in the parlor, neither of them speaking. Bianca looked up as he came in; Hawke didn't.

“Papa, we've been waiting for you. What took you so long?”

There was something different about his daughter today, something ... older and more certain of herself.

“Sit down,” she said, gesturing to a chair.

He did so, unable to take his eyes off of her, even to look at Hawke. The three of them sat there in silence for several minutes, Bianca with her arms folded looking pointedly from one parent to another; Fenris in an agony of guilt and indecision. And who knew what Hawke was thinking. Her face was as closed-off as Fenris had ever seen it in all their years together—more so, really. She could rarely hide her emotions from him.

“Fine,” Bianca said at last, when it became clear that neither of her parents was going to begin speaking. She tossed the long braid of black hair over her shoulder, sat up straight, and took a deep breath. “I've been waiting for you two to get over yourselves and decide to stop tormenting everyone else, but apparently you're not planning on doing that.”

It was a fair hit. Hawke glanced at Fenris for the first time, but her gaze quickly moved back to their daughter. It struck Fenris that Bianca looked very much like him in this moment, but she sounded quite a bit like her mother, especially as she had been once upon a time here in Kirkwall.

“So ... I've made a decision. I spoke to Aunt Varania last night, and she has agreed to let Papa out of his servitude if—if I accompany her back to Tevinter.”

Fenris was out of his seat before he could think. “No! I will not allow you to do that.”

Bianca was on her feet as well. “Oh, now you think it's your decision? Where have you been all this time?” There were tears welling up in her eyes. “You two only ever think of each other! Why did we leave Rivain? Because Mother got hurt. Why did we come to Kirkwall? Because you wanted to make her happy. Why did you leave? Because you wanted her to be safe. Why did she go running off after you? Because she couldn't function without you. And where was I in all of that? Did either of you ever even care?”

“That is not true!” Fenris said, aghast. “How can you think such a—“

“Yes, it is.” Hawke's voice was so quiet it cut through his shouting. She was standing behind her chair now, and the tears were flowing freely down her face. Hawke, who never cried if she could help it. “It's true, and Maker help me, I'll let you go to Tevinter, Bianca, if it means he won't. I'm sorry—you'll think I'm a horrible mother, and probably I am. But ...” She swiped at the tears angrily, visibly struggling for control of herself. “I know you think we haven't seen what you've become, Bianca, and that part isn't true. We've seen it. Your studies with Isabela, the way you handled Freddy and Kethali, the part you played in our rescue. Even now, when we couldn't find a way out, you found one. I'm proud of you, even if you think I have no right to be.”

Fenris watched her, aghast. How could she say any of that? “I will not let you go to her, Bianca. You do not know what she is capable of!”

Bianca tore her eyes away from her mother's stricken, tear-stained face. “Of course I do. I've been raised on a steady diet of how evil everyone in Tevinter is, especially the magisters. But you don't see the way Aunt Varania looks at you when you're not paying attention—she loves you. Somewhere inside her, she wants another chance to forgive you, but you're both so ... so damned stubborn that you'll never let each other have that chance.”

“That ... is not true.” Fenris crossed his arms over his chest, but he could hear his own voice falter. Was it true? Did Varania long to reconnect as much as he longed to find in her the colors and sounds of his long-lost shadowed past?

“The point is, you can't stop me, Papa. I've already agreed; I'm going. As her companion, not her slave.”

“That can change in an instant the moment she has you in her power!”

“For what purpose?” Bianca shrugged. “She can't use me as leverage over the two of you—she already has you if she wants you, Papa, and she agreed to let you go for me.”

“So that she can call us back and have both of us.”

“But why would she bother? If that's what she wanted, there were other ways. Why wait for me to come to her? No, Papa, I believe she is telling the truth. And, more to the point, this is what I want. I want to know where I came from, on both sides. I know about Mother's family—I am proud to be a Hawke, proud to be part Fereldan, proud to be an Amell. But I want to know about yours, to know about the parts of Tevinter that you never talk about in your obsession with how everything there is evil and awful.”

Fenris turned on the only other person he could aim his anger toward. “Hawke, how can you let this happen?”

“She knows what she's doing, Fenris. At least one of you tells me before leaving me. She's standing up and being honest with us like an adult, and she's earned the right to decide who she wants to be. At the very least, she's earned the right to go and find out what her options are.” Shuddering, Hawke rubbed her hands over her face, and emerged with her blue eyes determined and bright, as they had always been. She stood taller, somehow, than she had a moment ago. “Bianca,” she said, holding out her arms, and their daughter hurried to her, the two women embracing.

It was the first time Fenris had thought of his daughter as a woman—more, as her mother's equal. What a change from her childhood. But this decision would lose her to them forever, and he could not bear that thought.

“No.”

“Then tell me, Papa, what do you plan to do? Return to Tevinter and be a slave again, to your own sister? Because she is as stubborn as you are—she will enforce your agreement, and you will have no further choices. I go willingly, as her guest, her companion, and you and Mother are free to live your life together!”

Fenris couldn't look at Evelyn. He didn't even know if she wanted such a thing, if it was possible to live a life with her again. He knew what he wanted, but he didn't know if he could bear to have it at the cost of his daughter.

Bianca drew away from her mother, looking at him with sadness. “I'm going now, Papa, and I'm told we leave tomorrow at noon. If you want to say good-bye ... you know where to find me.” 

“No. No, Bianca.” The words were a plea, a cry for her to stop because she was tearing his heart out of his chest as surely as he had ever done to any of his victims.

“What other answer was there, Papa? Were you going to go back, break Mother's heart for good this time? Were you going to stay here, break your word? You didn't know what you were going to do—we could all tell that. I've saved you from making the decision, and given you an option. Aren't you even going to be grateful?”

“Grateful! Grateful!” he shouted. “I have spent a lifetime keeping you safe, keeping you where the Imperium could never touch you. And now you are walking into it of your own volition, and you expect me to be grateful you are doing so? No!”

“Fine,” she said, very quietly, making him feel like a chastened child. “Don't be grateful. It doesn't matter, anyway, because you can't do anything to change it.” Her back straight, she turned and left, leaving Fenris and Evelyn alone together.

“Are we simply going to let this happen?” he asked Evelyn in outrage.

“Yes, we are. Sit down, Fenris. We need to talk.”  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
Across town, in a room in the Hanged Man that looked even more spacious than usual after so long cooped up on a ship, Varric placed his Bianca carefully on her specially designed stand. She gleamed with polish, and he looked at her fondly for a moment.

There came a knock at his door, and he went to open it. On the other side stood Orana, looking ... rather beautiful. Her blonde hair was down, flowing softly over her shoulders, and she wore a white dress that flowed likewise, and she looked graceful and delicate and ethereal.

“Um ...” Varric couldn't believe nothing more glib was coming, but he hadn't been expecting her, and she was looking at him as though she had come for some reason he ought to have known about, and he really hadn't.

“I'm sorry to come uninvited, but the family were having a discussion and I thought ... best not to be in the way for that. And I thought, perhaps, there were some things you and I needed to say to one another.”

“Oh?” Another monosyllable. Varric caught himself looking for a mirror, wondering if he was still himself; surely he was more articulate than this.

“Well, perhaps some things I needed to say to you.” Orana looked at his chair. “May I sit?”

“Please.”

She arranged her skirts around her in a smooth, feminine motion. There was something so confident about her tonight, so different from her usual shy self. Varric wondered what had made the change.

“You and I have spent a lot of time together in the years since Serah Hawke left Kirkwall.”

“Yes,” he said, and managed to add a couple more syllables this time, “we have.” Her voice was doing odd things to him, causing his heart to pound and his breath to come short. It wasn't a new sensation, but his inability to make it go away with a joke or a clever remark—that certainly was new.

“You were there the day she found me, shivering and lost; everything I knew had been taken from me by Magister Hadriana. If I hadn't found you, and Serah Hawke, I don't know what would have become of me.” She smiled before he had a chance to protest. “Don't say I would have found a way, because we both know I wouldn't have. Not then. But now ... maybe.”

“Have you?” he asked, startled to hear his voice come out husky and low. “Found a way.”

“I don't know, Varric. Have I?”

“Orana, I ...” His eyes fell on Bianca, propped in her corner.

“Don't look at her. For once, don't hide behind whatever that story is you won't tell,” Orana said. “Was it worth it, losing Merrill to a story, to a memory, to an idea wrapped up in wood and metal?”

He thought of Daisy. She had never been for him, not really. Her vision had been focused outward, onward, always wanting to do something with her life, to make a difference. And she had;she wouldn't have with him. “She made the right choice.”

“And you? Did you make the right choice?” Orana was sitting forward, her eyes fixed on him, and he thought how much prettier she looked now than she had when she was younger, how much less skittish and frightened.

“I ... don't know.”

“Would you make the same decision again today?” Orana looked down at her slender hands. “Will you, Varric?”

The question hit him square in the chest. All these years, what had he been waiting for? For Bianca? For Daisy? For ... for Hawke? Or had he been afraid to stop waiting?

Orana was twisting her hands together, not as sure of herself as she wanted him to think, and he found himself crossing the room, putting his smaller, thicker hands over hers to make her stop. She looked up at him, and—the rest of it was a story he would be far too busy to tell.


	55. We Belong

“Sit down, Fenris,” Hawke said. “We need to talk.”

“About what? About the fact that you just let our daughter walk out of here into the mouths of the demons that run Tevinter?”

“Into the hands of her aunt, your sister. Who, despite her reputation, hasn't lifted a hand against any of us since we broke out of the Aeonar. And Bianca has made her decision; do you think she'd thank you to interfere in it? Or even allow you to?”

He turned from her, from the barrage of questions. “Perhaps not.”

“What do we do now, Fenris?” Her voice was so soft he could barely hear it; or perhaps it was the pounding of his own blood that drowned it out. He wanted to answer her, but he didn't know any better than she did what the right answer was.

“I wish I knew,” he replied in a matching whisper.

Hawke sighed heavily, sitting down on the edge of the chair and putting her head in her hands. “Maybe you should just go,” she said. “I'm too tired to fight anymore. If neither of us is sure of what we want, maybe we should just take that as a sign.”

Startled by her weariness as much as her words, Fenris looked at her bowed head, noting the heavy streaks of grey in her hair that had not been there several months ago when this all began. He could not help but think of the indomitable warrior he had first met all those years ago—how her eyes had met his so firmly, how she had carried herself with such confidence. Since then she had lost her sister to the Gallows, her mother to blood magic, her home to the powers that pursued them both, and she had stood straight and unbowed against all of it. If now she huddled there, bent and beaten down, it was because of him.

And suddenly, Fenris understood what Varric had been saying all these years. Some part of him had always fought shy of believing himself to be as important to Hawke's well-being as Varric and Bethany and Aveline seemed to think he was; a part that still believed somewhere back there she would have been better off finding someone more suitable to her position in life, more worthy of her.

But for better or for worse, she had never wanted someone more suitable—the only thing she had ever asked for out of her life was him. And he had repaid her by running from her, not once but twice; punished her by withholding himself from her, as though she had been at fault. When in truth, she had never done anything to deserve such a loss.

What could he have been thinking? Fenris's heart went out to her, and he wanted to pour promises at her feet, to shower her with kisses. But she would not have accepted them. Not now.

Standing there and looking at her, he resolved that if Hawke was too weary to fight for them, he must do it for her. He owed her that, and much, much more.

“I do not wish to leave you,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Hawke looked up at that, studying his face. But there was no change in hers, no lightening of the weariness there. “But you have before.” She shrugged, shaking her head. “Every time I awoke alone the rest of our lives, my first thought would be whether you had done it again. I can't live like that.”

“Would you rather live entirely without me, then?” he asked softly, the words painful on his tongue.

“No!” It was a soft cry, but a heartfelt one, and with it she huddled back in the chair, her arms wrapped around herself. “I ... I can't see it either way, Fenris. Neither with you or without you. I don't know what I want, or what I can live with. I want to go back to what we had, but you broke that when you left me, and even more when you sent me away from your sister's house in Tevinter.” She shook her head. “I swore I would come for you, no matter what took you from me ... but I can't chase you inside your head, and I can't make you understand and I can't—I can't, don't you see? Any of it.”

Fenris went down on his knees before her, looking up into her face, his eyes seeking hers. “Hawke.”

“No, don't say it, whatever it—“

“I love you,” he said, and she stopped in her protest, unable to take her eyes from him. “I have from the beginning, even though it would not have occurred to me to use that word at the time. From the first moment I saw you, I have measured myself against the way you looked at me that night—and I have found myself wanting. I have never, never, understood ... At no point have I ever doubted your feelings for me, and I have understood the function that I fill for you, the ways in which I make you more yourself, but I have never understood what the lack of my presence would truly mean for you. Until now.” He took a breath, trying to push through what even now was a natural reticence when it came to approaching truths that went this deep. “What Varric and Bethany and Aveline, even Isabela, have tried to tell me all these years—I never believed. I thought, without me, you would still be ... the valiant, indomitable woman that I have followed for the better part of a lifetime. And I see now what I had not seen before, which is how much of your strength comes from me. From us, from what we are together.”

There was a light dawning in the back of her eyes, a softening there, a hope, and Fenris kept talking, hoping to feed that flame and make it burn brighter.

“When I left you, it was with the idea that safety without me would be more beneficial to you than danger with me. You had tried to tell me that was not true, but I thought you were ... protecting me. I did not realize ... Hawke,” he said, reaching for her hands and taking them in his. They were so cold; he brought them to his chest to warm them. “I have always known that you were a piece of me, that I would be less without you. But I realize now that I am a piece of you, as well—knowing that, I could never willingly diminish you in that fashion again. Never,” he repeated.

“I want to believe you.”

“I was a fool. A weak, cowardly, impulsive fool. I know that now, and at a cost that ...” He thought of Bianca going to Tevinter in his place, his brave girl venturing forth into the very world he had tried to protect her from.

“She'll be fine. She knows what she's doing.” Hawke gave him a brief smile. “She's had plenty of people showing her what not to do; if she's doing this, it's because it's not what you or I would have chosen, and I think we have to respect that.”

“We do,” Fenris said grudgingly. “Do we not also have to respect that the reason she chose the way she did was so that we would find a way to be together once more? Hawke, please.” His voice rasped over the words.

“Tell me what you would have done. If Bianca hadn't made a deal with Varania, what would you have chosen?”

“I do not know.”

“That's not good enough, Fenris. I need to know.”

He wanted to protest that he had not understood at the time the way he did now, but that was an excuse; she was right, she deserved an answer. “I ... confess, I had not decided. But ... out of my cowardice, my sense of unworthiness, I would have gone with my sister.”

Her jaw clenched. “I know you would have. I know you, Fenris, but I don't know if I can trust you. Not again.”

“You may set whatever rules for my conduct you wish, and I will follow them. All I ask is—is to be close to you, whatever, however, that is most comfortable for you.” She had not removed her hands from his, and he took that as a good sign. He was going to hold those hands for as long as he possibly could, as long as that could keep him here at her side.

Her blue eyes studied his. “It ... may take me some time to be ... sure of you again.”

“Which is still far more generosity than I deserve.”

“And you are not allowed to get out of bed before I wake up ever again, not for the rest of our lives.”

“You have my word.” His heart was pounding as he waited for her response.

“And I want to stay here, Fenris, where Varric is, and Aveline. I wouldn't have chosen to make Kirkwall my home, but it is now.”

“Agreed.”

“No arguments?”

“Not about remaining in Kirkwall. I am not so foolhardy as to promise never to argue with you again.”

He was gladdened to see her smile. “How boring would that be?” And then she was using their still joined hands to draw him towards her. “Fenris.”

Fenris let her kiss him, parting his lips under the soft pressure of hers. She deepened the kiss, pressing him farther and farther back until they lay together on the soft carpet, Hawke's hands curving around the back of his head. “You have to grow your hair back.”

“Gladly.”

She clung to him. “I love you, Fenris.”

“And I you.”

After a few moments, she got to her feet, taking his hand to pull him up as well. “Come upstairs.”

“As you wish.”

In her room—their room, the room that had seen so many nights and mornings and sometimes afternoons of love, and those two shameful leavings of his—she turned to him, reaching for his hand. She unwound the red velvet curtain tie from his wrist and flung it into the fire. “Never again,” she said. “If you leave me again, the only thing red on you will be the stain when I force you to rip out your own heart the way you've done mine, both times.”

He was unable to look away from her blue eyes, burning brightly and fiercely. “Yes.”

“And we're taking down the curtains, too. I'm not spending another night looking at them hanging there and remembering what you've done.”

“Should we not leave them there as a reminder?”

“Do you need a reminder, Fenris? Because I don't. I carry the scars on my heart as it is.”

Fenris reached for her, wanting to hold her and pretend that somehow, someday he could make those scars go away, but Hawke stepped back, putting up a hand between them.

“You still have it, don't you?” There was a quaver in her voice, the fear that somehow he had left it behind or lost it very real in her, and Fenris was glad to be able to reach inside his breastplate and pull out his wedding ring on its chain. Hawke nodded. “Good.”

He lifted the chain over his head, snapping it deftly, and slid the ring off into his hand. Then he reached for hers, placing the ring inside it. “You keep this,” he said softly. “Return it to me when you feel you are ready.”

She nodded, her hand closing over the ring.

“You still wear yours,” he said.

“I never left you,” Hawke reminded him. “I never left us; never stopped believing that we could face anything necessary together.”

“I know.” He put his hands on her upper arms, glad to see she did not shy away from the touch. “I will never make that mistake again, I swear it to you, Hawke. On Bianca's life. I will never again make the mistake of thinking either of us is stronger alone than we are with one another.”

Her blue eyes searched his earnestly. “I believe you mean that. But you've meant all the promises before, too. Please, Fenris, no more promises. Just ... stay with me, every day. Prove to me by your actions that you won't leave me, since I can't believe your words.”

It would be difficult, he knew that, to live at her side and know that she regarded him with fractured trust ... but more difficult for her, and it was a punishment he had richly deserved and could only have escaped by breaking his word even further.

“I am here,” he said. He wanted to kiss her, to hold her, to show her with his body all the things his words were inadequate to convey, but he was afraid to take that step lest she push him away.

Hawke could tell; they had not been lovers for the best part of a lifetime without her learning what he felt. “Yes, Fenris, please.”

Slowly, his hands trembling, he drew her close to him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

And then they were kissing, and Fenris devoutly hoped the healing could begin.  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
The next morning they met the ship that was to take Bianca away. She had been watching for them eagerly, and came running to them, her braid swinging behind her. Stopping in front of them, she looked from one parent to the other, her green eyes searching their faces. “You did it,” she said exultantly. “I knew this would work!”

“We would not have wanted your sacrifice to have been for nothing,” Fenris said, his eyes moving over her shoulder to his sister, who was leaning against a post, arms folded, and staring at him.

“It's not a sacrifice, Papa. It's a decision.”

“He knows that, Bianca. Or he will.” Hawke gave him a nudge in Varania's direction. “Go talk to your sister.”

Not entirely unwillingly, he moved toward his sister.

“Leto. Still hiding behind someone else, I see.”

“She wants to go to Tevinter.” Without meaning to, he said, “Please do not harm her.”

“I would not dream of doing so. What do you take me for? I have never harmed you, or anyone you cared about.”

“You brought Danarius after me!”

“I had little choice, if I did not wish to die, once he discovered I was receiving letters from you. And I did not wish to die.” She shrugged. “It turned out well enough for you in the end.”

“So ... you will take care of Bianca.”

“I will.”

“Perhaps we will not see each other again.”

“Given how rarely we have seen each other, that appears to be little loss.”

“Still, I am ... grateful to have had the chance ... to know you.” The words came hesitantly, but he managed to push them out.

Varania looked at him, a sharp reply clearly hovering on her lips, but her eyes softened. “I, too.”

Fenris cleared his throat, nodding. “Travel safely.”

“Thank you.”

He turned from her, glad to have left it at least somewhat less combatively than it could have been. Part of him mourned the lost opportunity to know her, to truly be a family again, but could either of them have stomached that? He didn't think so. This was the least they could have done, but she would have Bianca with her, and perhaps that was the important part, anyway.

Rejoining Hawke and Bianca, he put an arm around his girl's waist. “You will write to us regularly,” he said sternly.

“Of course, Papa. And I want to hear about all your adventures, too.”

“It is to be devoutly hoped that our adventures are over,” he said, smiling at Hawke.

“Life with you is always an adventure,” she said, a faint edge beneath her tone, but she smiled at him.

“You two take care of each other,” Bianca told them, tears shimmering in her green eyes. “I mean, you will, but really ... for me. When I come back, I want to see you both, the way you've always been.”

“You have our word,” Fenris assured her. He pulled her close against him, holding her for a long moment, thinking of the blinking baby he had first held, of the mischievous child he had so cherished, and then he let go of the young woman she had become.

She embraced her mother, as well, and then turned and went up the gangplank.

Fenris and Hawke stood, side-by-side, watching as the ship pulled out, waving as long as they could still see the small, vibrant figure of the woman they had created. When the ship was gone, Hawke turned to him.

“Hanged Man?”

Fenris smiled. It was exactly like old times. “Gladly.”


End file.
